
* ^ 




:. «u 















. s * A 







•1 o 














ON THE GREAT 
* HIGHWAY • 






ON THE GREAT 
HIGHWAY 



THE WANDERINGS AND AD- 
VENTURES OF A SPECIAL 
CORRESPONDENT * * * 



By JAMES CREELMAN 



LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY 
BOSTON 



THF UBRARY'OF 
CONGRESS. 

Two Core? Pecsivep 

NOV, 2 1901 

COPVBIQHT ENTRY 

CLASS CV XXo. No. 

C2- % 2- h 
COPY A. 











COPYRIGHT, 

1901, 

BY LOTHROP 

PUBLISHING 

COMPANY. 




ALL RIGHTS 
RESERVED 


ENTERED AT 
STATIONERS' 
. HALL . 









PUBLISHED m OCTOBER 



3 

.0 



■ 



Preface 



THESE pages from the experiences of 
a busy man are intended to give the 
public some idea of the processes of 
modern journalism which are gradually assimi- 
lating the human race. The newspaper reader, 
who sits comfortably at home and surveys the 
events of the whole world day by day, seldom 
realizes the costly enterprise and fierce effort 
employed in the work of bringing the news 
of all countries to his fireside ; nor does he 
fully appreciate the part which the press is 
rapidly assuming in human affairs, not only 
as historian and commentator, but as a direct 
and active agent. 

The author has attempted to give the origi- 
nal color and atmosphere of some of the great 
events of his own time, and leaves the duty 
of moralizing to his indulgent patrons. The 
human nature of men and women everywhere 

5 



PREFACE 



is strikingly alike, — at least the author has 
found it so, — and if that fact has been demon- 
strated in this book, its purpose has been 
served. 

The frequent introduction of the author's 
personality is a necessary means of remind- 
ing the reader that he is receiving the testi- 
mony of an eyewitness. 



Contents 



Chapter Page 

I. The White Shepherd of Rome . n 

II. The Storming of Ping Yang . . 32 

III. Interview with the King of Corea . 5 5 

IV. A Ride with the Japanese Invaders 

in Manchuria .... 74 

V. Battle and Massacre of Port A rthur 94 



VI. The Avatar of Count Tolstoy 

VII. Tolstoy and his People . 

VIII. "The Butcher" 

IX. Familiar Glimpses of Yellow Jour- 

nalism .... 

X. Battle of El Caney 
XL Heroes of Peace and War 

XII. A Talk with Kossuth 

XIII. The Czar on his Knees . 

XIV. Greeks on the Verge of War . 



120 
141 
157 

174 
194 
217 
242 
256 
268 



CONTENTS 



Chapter Page 

XV. Sitting Ball . . . .294 

XVI. On the Firing Line in the Philip- 

pines 313 

XVII. A Race with a Woman for the 

Cable 336 

XVIII. In the Black Republic . .357 

XIX. Newsgathering in tlie Clouds . 381 

XX. McKinley, the Forgiving . . 403 



Ill usrRATioNs 



James Creelman . . . Frontispiece 

Facing Page 

Leo XIII 14 

The King of Corea . . . . -58 

Count Tolstoy . . . . . .124 

The Charge at El Caney . . . .198 

Louis Kossuth ...... 246 

King George of Greece . . . .272 

Sitting Bull 298 

William McKinley 406 



ON THE GREAT * 

HIGHWAY 

CHAPTER I 

The White Shepherd of Rome 

IT was all very well to sit at an editorial 
desk in Paris and plan an interview with 
the Pope. But I had not been a week 
in Rome before I began to understand the 
seeming hopelessness of carrying profane 
American journalism into the presence of the 
white Vicar of Christ, sitting at the heart of 
the mysterious Vatican. 

There was an enchanting sense of adven- 
ture in the thing. Yet a thousand years of 
unbroken tradition stood between me and the 
august head of the Christian world, whose 
predecessors had turned sceptres to dust and 
blotted out kingdoms. 

n 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

The pavements and walls of the venerable 
city seemed to mock me. The stately cardi- 
nals listened and shook their heads. There 
was no precedent. The bare thought of a 
newspaper correspondent interviewing the Pope 
violated every sentiment of Papal history, from 
St. Peter to Leo XIII. The Apostolic Secre- 
tary of State, Cardinal Rampolla, advised me 
to abandon the idea. The Vicar General of 
Rome, Cardinal Parocchi, smiled at my 
enthusiasm and urged me not to waste any 
time on an impossible mission. Still I went 
from one prince of the Church to another, 
from palace to palace, from cathedral to 
cathedral. 

The persistent spirit developed in an Ameri- 
can newspaper office is not easily daunted. 
As the difficulties gathered, my ambition to 
interview the Pope grew more intense. It 
became an absorbing passion. It was with 
me when I wandered in the crumbling palaces 
of the Caesars or walked among the ruins of 
the Roman forum. It haunted me among the 
tombs of the popes in St. Peter's. I dreamed 
of it at night. 

12 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

And when every Cardinal and Bishop in 
Rome seemed to stand in the way, I went to 
Turin and entreated Cardinal Allimonde, King 
Humbert's friend, to help me. Alas ! no ; the 
Cardinal assured me that my quest was bound 
to end in failure. There were some things that 
American journalism could not accomplish. 

Then to see Cardinal San Felice, the ven- 
erable " Saint of Naples." The gentle old 
man listened to the story of my efforts to 
see the Pope and shook his snowy head dis- 
couragingly. 

" I cannot help you, my son," he said. " I 
know that it would be a great thing for a 
newspaper writer to be the first to interview 
the Holy Father. But I am too old to go 
to Rome to assist you, and a letter would ac- 
complish little. The throne of St. Peter is 
guarded in a thousand ways against the shock 
of change, and what you propose would upset 
the traditions of ages. Still, Leo XIII. is a 
broad-minded, far-seeing statesman, and if he 
thought that a newspaper interview would 
serve the cause of Christianity he would not 
hesitate to make a new precedent." 

13 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

At this time kind fortune brought into my 
anxious life in Rome the friendship of an 
American sculptor, Chevalier Ezekiel, who 
lived and worked in a studio in the vine-grown 
ruins of the Baths of Diocletian. And to this 
friend I confided the tale of my attempts to 
penetrate the innermost door of the Vatican. 
As he sat there in his white sculptor's blouse 
and slanting velvet cap, beside a marble figure 
of the dead Christ, his face suddenly became 
radiant. 

" I have it ! " he said, throwing his cap on 
the table. " Cardinal Hohenlohe will help 
you." 

So straight to the Basilica of Santa Maria 
Maggiore we went, and found the Cardinal in 
his palace, a stout, rosy, witty, German prince, 
once the bosom friend of Pius IX. Within 
an hour the Cardinal promised to lay the 
matter before the Pope. Three days later he 
sent for me and announced that His Holiness 
had consented to be interviewed. 

"When?" I asked. 

" Ah ! " said the Cardinal, " no one can tell 
that. Perhaps after a week; perhaps after 

14 




Leo XIII. 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

six months. The Vatican moves slowly. It 
has the affairs of the whole world, civilized 
and uncivilized, to consider. You must wait. 
Rome will teach you how to be patient." 

I left the palace drunken with joy. How 
my old comrades in New York would stare 
when they learned that I had reached the 
unreachable ! How my newspaper would 
herald the feat to the ends of the earth ! I 
could hardly keep my feet from dancing on 
the hot pavement. Rome, Rome, how I loved 
you that day ! 

The next day a message from Paris sent me 
to Brindisi to meet Henry M. Stanley, the 
explorer, who was on his way back from 
Africa, after rescuing Emin Pasha from the 
perils of the Equatorial Province. I was in 
the service of the newspaper that first sent 
Stanley into the "dark continent," and he 
gave me the materials for an exclusive de- 
spatch that, in other days, would have made 
me dizzy with pride. But as I walked along 
the stone quay of Brindisi with the weather- 
beaten man whose deeds had once inspired 
me with visions of the possibilities of my pro- 

15 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

fession, and heard him talk of the riches of 
Africa, my mind turned always to Rome. 
There was a terrible fear upon me. What if 
the Pope should send for me while I was away ? 
The thought filled me with agony. 

Stanley had picked me out of a score of 
newspaper correspondents, who stood enviously 
watching us as we strolled along the shore of 
the sparkling Adriatic Sea. And yet I wished 
myself in another place. 

Two days later I was in Rome again, and 
early the next morning a Papal chamberlain 
came to the hotel with a summons to the 
presence of the Pope. The invitation included 
Monsignor Frederick Z. Rooker, the scholarly 
Vice Rector of the American college, who 
was to act as interpreter. 

The governments of Europe had practically 
confessed in conference at Berlin that they 
could do nothing to check the onward sweep 
of the tide of social discontent that threatened 
the peace of nations. The German Emperor's 
international council on the desperate question 
of capital and labor was an admitted failure. 
What would Leo XIII. say ? Would he, too, 

16 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

admit that accumulated and concentrated 
wealth had brought into the world problems 
unsolvable except by brute force ? 

No man can make that journey from the 
famous bronze portal of the Vatican into the 
presence of the imprisoned monarch, whom two 
hundred million human beings hail as the vice 
regent of Heaven and earth, without being 
thrilled from head to foot. I care not whether 
he be Protestant, Catholic, Jew, or pagan; 
whether he adores the Pope as the infallible 
Vicar of Christ, or regards him simply as the 
supreme teacher in a universal school — he will 
be profoundly moved by the solemnity and sug- 
gestiveness of that place. 

To reach this sovereign of a ghostly empire 
we passed through the palace door that looks 
out upon the wide space in front of St. Peter's 
— once lighted by the burning bodies of 
Christian martyrs. Here stood a squad of 
the stalwart Swiss Guard, in brilliant costumes 
of red, yellow, and black, designed by Michael 
Angelo more than three hundred years ago. 
Ascending the royal stairway of marble that 
leads to the immortal Sistine Chapel, and turn- 

*7 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

ing to the right, up a flight of ancient steps, 
we were saluted by the Gendarmes of St. Peter 
at the entrance of the open courtyard of St. 
Damasus, which is half surrounded by cor- 
ridors and halls glorified by the genius of 
Raphael, the tender colors glowing here and 
there through open windows. 

This spot once echoed the steel-shod feet of 
Charlemagne. Here Napoleon stood among 
fawning cowards. 

In one corner of the sunny courtyard was a 
cardinal's carriage and long-tailed horses; a tall, 
thin Monsignor in purple silk rustled by, and 
a white pigeon wheeled in alarm through the 
air as the great chimes began to strike the hour. 
A picturesque sentry, leaning on an antique 
halberd, guarded the door of a great marble 
stairway leading from the opposite side of the 
court. Passing through the door and mount- 
ing the stairs, we came to the vast hall of St. 
Clement. Here figures of Justice, Mercy, and 
Faith looked down upon a jolly company of 
the Pope's soldiers sprawled comfortably on a 
wooden bench in a corner, their glittering hal- 
berds leaning against the brilliant wall. There 

18 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

was a ringing command uttered by some invisi- 
ble officer, and the next instant the row of red, 
black, and yellow guards was saluting a stately, 
scarlet cardinal who passed without raising his 
eyes. 

Imagine the feelings of a young American 
writer moving through that palace of eleven 
thousand rooms to interview a king without 
territory — trying to preserve his heathen news 
instincts in such surroundings ! 
. A burly, white-haired servitor in crimson silk 
and knee-breeches met us at the outer door of 
the Pope's apartments, and to him I delivered 
the document which called me to the Vatican. 
Through one splendid chamber after another 
he led us, among historic tapestries and princely 
trappings of bygone pontiffs, until we reached 
the throne room. 

Here we sat until Leo XIII. was ready to 
receive us in the next room. The great golden 
throne under the royal canopy was the gift of 
the workingmen of Rome to the Pope. Above 
it shone a triple crown, surmounting the azure 
shield, silver bar, and cypress tree of the Pecci 
family. The Pope is proud to sit upon a 

19 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAT 

throne given to him by the toilers of his own 
country. 

After a while, a smiling chamberlain in pur- 
ple silk, with a resplendent gold chain hung 
about his neck, came from the inner chamber. 
He chatted with Monsignor Rooker and myself 
for a few moments and then, opening the door, 
preceded us into the presence of the august 
head of the Christian world. 

There, behind all the pomp and ceremony, 
sat a gentle old man, with a sweet face and the 
saddest eyes that ever looked out of a human 
head — the quiet shepherd of Christendom. 
He sat in a chair of crimson and gold, set close 
to a table. Behind him was a carved figure of 
the Virgin, and near it a smaller throne. He 
wore a skull cap of white watered silk, and a 
snowy cassock flowed gracefully about his frail 
figure, a plain cross of gold hanging upon the 
sunken breast. It was a presence at once 
appealing and majestic. 

That moment I forgot my newspaper and 
the news-thirsty multitudes of New York. 

As we advanced to salute the Pope, he held 
out his thin, white hand, on which gleamed a 

20 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

great emerald. It was the Fisherman's Ring, 
the sign of Apostolic authority throughout the 
world. We knelt and kissed the outstretched 
hand, and Monsignor Rooker — being a Catho- 
lic — reverently pressed his lips to the gold- 
embroidered cross on the Pope's crimson velvet 
slipper. 

His Holiness bade us be seated beside him. 
There was surprising vigor in his gestures, and 
his voice was clear, deep, and unwavering. 

" You are very young," he remarked. " I 
expected to see an older man. But your nation 
is also young." 

It is hard to describe the delicate courtesy 
and benignity of Leo XII I. 's manner. 

" I have a claim upon Americans for their 
respect," he said with kindling eyes, " because 
I love them and their country. I have a 
great tenderness for those who live in that 
land — Protestants and all. Under the Con- 
stitution of the United States religion has 
perfect liberty and is a growing power for 
good. The Church thrives in the air of free- 
dom. I love and bless Americans for their 
frank, unaffected character and for the respect 

21 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

which they have for Christian morals and the 
Christian religion. 

" The press — ah, what a power it is get- 
ting to be! — the press and the Church 
should be together in the work of elevating 
mankind. And the American press should 
especially be amiable and benevolent toward 
me, because my only desire is to use my 
power for the good of the whole people, Prot- 
estants and Catholics alike." 

The Pope looked at me intently for a 
moment. 

"You are not one of the Faithful?" he 
said. 

"I am what journalism has made of me." 

"You are all my children," said the Pope, 
patting my hand like a father. " Protestants, 
Catholics — all, all, — God has placed me 
here to watch over and care for you. I have 
no other aim on earth than to labor for the 
good of the human race. 

" I want the Protestants of America as well 
as the Catholics to understand me. The 
Vicar of Christ is respected in the United 
States, but it is not always so in Europe." 

22 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

There was an indescribable ring of pathos 
in the Pope's voice. His lips trembled. 

" Here we have in temporal control men 
who feel nothing but hatred for the repre- 
sentative of Jesus Christ and offer constant 
insults to the Holy See. Enemies of God 
armed with governmental power seek not 
only to grieve and humble the Holy See in 
my person, but to utterly break down the in- 
fluence of religion, to disorganize and obliter- 
ate the Church, and to overthrow the whole 
system of morality upon which civilization 
rests. The power of paganism is at work in 
Europe again. 

" These are times of social unrest and 
impending disorder. I recognize the good 
impulse that persuaded the German Emperor 
to assemble the Great Powers at Berlin and 
seek a cure for the disease that afflicts capital 
and labor. But there is no power that can 
deal with anarchy and social discontent, but 
organized religion. It alone can restore the 
moral balance to the human race. The result 
of the efforts which have been made by 
nations to live without Christian guidance can 

23 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

be seen in the present state of civilized society 
— discontent, hatred, and profound unhappi- 
ness. 

" I have watched the growing helplessness of 
the suffering working classes throughout the 
world with anxiety and grief. I have studied 
how to relieve society of this terrible confusion. 
While I live I will labor to bring about a 
change. The troubles of the poor and heavy 
laden are largely due to enemies of Christian 
morality who want to see Christian history 
ended and mankind return to pagan ways. 

" Human law cannot reach the real seat of 
the conflict between capital and labor. Govern- 
ments and legislatures are helpless to restore 
harmony. The various nations must do their 
work, and I must do mine. Their work is local 
and particular, such as the maintenance of 
order, and the enforcement of ameliorative laws. 
But my work as the head of Christendom must 
be universal and on a different plane. 

"The world must be re-Christianized. The 
moral condition of the workingman and his 
employer must be improved. Each must look 
at the other through Christian eyes. That is 

24 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

the only way. How vain are the efforts of 
nations which seek to bring contentment to 
man and master by legislation, forgetting that 
the Christian religion alone can draw men 
together in love and peace. As the wealth of 
the world increases, the gulf between the laborer 
and his employer will widen and deepen unless 
it be bridged over by Christian charity and the 
mutual forbearance which is inspired by Chris- 
tian morals. But if the foes of Jesus Christ 
and His Church continue to attack and revile 
the holy religion which inspires and teaches 
sound morals and has civilized the world, these 
social disorders, which are but signs on the 
horizon to-day, will overwhelm and destroy 
them. 

" The continued existence of human slavery 
in pagan lands is another source of sorrow to 
me. As a means of abolishing slavery I have 
established missionary colleges and am sending 
devoted missionaries into Africa and wherever 
men are held in bondage. The true way to 
free them is to educate and Christianize them. 
An enlightened man cannot be enslaved. For 
that reason I shall devote the energies of the 

25 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

church to spreading knowledge among the poor 
savages. Humanity must aid me to teach these 
unfortunates and save them from slavery. We 
must work without ceasing until there is not a 
slave anywhere on earth." 

His Holiness spoke with visible emotion about 
his desire for the disarmament of Europe. 

"The existence of these vast armies is a 
source of displeasure and sorrow to the Holy 
See," he said. " The military life, which has 
been invested with a certain glamor, is injur- 
ing hundreds of thousands of young men. 
That fact must be apparent to every statesman 
who seriously considers the question. It sur- 
rounds young men with violent and immoral 
influences, it turns their thoughts from spirit- 
ual things, and tends to harden and degrade 
them. These armies are not only full of peril 
to the souls of men, but they drain the world 
of its wealth. So long as Europe is filled with 
soldiery, so long will all the labor represented 
by millions of men in arms be withdrawn from 
the soil, and the poor will be overburdened 
with taxes to support the system. The armies 
of Europe are impoverishing Europe. 

26 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

"These great military establishments have 
another deplorable effect. They set one people 
against another and intensify national jealous- 
ies. The inevitable result is the growth of a 
spirit of anger and vengefulness. I long to 
see a return of peace and charity among the 
nations. Mighty armies confronting each other 
on every frontier are not consistent with the 
teachings of Jesus Christ." 

I reminded His Holiness that the principle 
of arbitration rather than war had become a 
part of the national policy of the United 
States. 

"Yes," said the Pope, "that is a true and 
wise principle, but most of the men who con- 
trol the affairs of Europe are not governed by 
a desire for truth. See how they exalt godless- 
ness ! Look at the men whose names are 
selected here in Italy for honor after death ! — 
men who died opposing and reviling Christian- 
ity — men like Mazzini." 

That was the end of the first newspaper 
interview with the Pope. I knelt beside Mon- 
signor Rooker and received the Apostolic bene- 
diction. Then His Holiness arose. 

27 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

u I hope that you will omit the petty per- 
sonal details which are so offensive in news- 
paper articles," he said. " They are trivialities 
and beneath the dignity of the press." 

As we moved out of the room the Pope 
called me back to him, and placing his frail 
hands upon my head, his eyes brimming 
with emotion, he said in a voice of great 
tenderness : — 

" Son, you are young and you may be useful 
to the world. May the Father, Son, and Holy 
Spirit go with you. Farewell ! " 

And as we retired we looked back at the 
slender white figure standing alone in the shad- 
owy room — and I knew that I had been face 
to face with the most exalted personality of 
modern history. Of all the famous men I 
have met in my world-wanderings since that 
day, — statesmen, monarchs, philosophers, phil- 
anthropists, — I have seen no other man who 
seemed to have such a universal point of view. 



Once more I saw the Pope, borne aloft on 
the shoulders of the Swiss Guard into the 

28 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Sistine Chapel in a scene of supreme splendor 
— the triple crown upon his head, jewels flash- 
ing on his bosom, the Sistine choir chanting 
Palestrina's deathless music, and clouds of in- 
cense floating over the heads of a procession 
headed by the Knights of Malta, and followed 
by a long train of cardinals, archbishops, bish- 
ops, and monsignori. 

The sunlight fell upon lines of shining steel, 
nodding plumes, golden chains, shimmering 
robes of silk, and all the glittering symbolry of 
pontifical power and glory. 

And gathered within the walls immortalized 
by Raphael and Michael Angelo, before the 
eyes of the assembled aristocracy of Rome, was 
a horde of American savages in paint, feathers, 
and blankets, carrying tomahawks and knives. 
At the entrance of the chapel stood Buffalo 
Bill, Buck Taylor, and Broncho Bill, while a 
troop of cowboys, splashed with mud, and 
picturesque beyond description, lined the human 
aisle beyond. 

When the Pope appeared, swaying in his 
resplendent seat, high above the assembled host, 
the cowboys bowed their heads, the Indians 

29 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

knelt down, and Rocky Bear, the surly old 
chief, made the sign of the cross. 

The Pontiff leaned yearningly toward the 
rude groups and blessed them again and 
again. 



A few days afterward I was permitted to 
walk in the ancient garden of the Vatican. It 
was a day of surpassing loveliness. Every 
wandering breath of air came laden with the 
perfumes of distant fields of flowers. Here 
Pius IX. used to ride on his white mule among 
the venerable groves, interspersed with foun- 
tains and statues ; and here the poets of an 
elder time declaimed in the open air to the 
assembled gallants of the Papal courts. 

I saw the herd of shaggy goats from Africa 
which were driven every day to the door of the 
Pope's apartments and freshly milked. I ate 
grapes in the vineyard that furnished wine for 
the Pope's table. I saw the Pope's summer 
retreat, and the little tea pavilion on the road- 
side, with the scarlet velvet chair, and the caged 
parrots screaming the Pope's name. 

30 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

I saw the snow-white deer, and the snow- 
white peacock — emblem of immortality. 

Then my guide suddenly knelt in the road 
and crossed himself ; and in the shadow of a 
mighty tree I saw a bent white figure, and a 
hand faintly waving the sign of the cross. 



31 



CHAPTER II 

The Storming of Ping Yang 

HEAR the story of the storming of 
Ping Yang by the Japanese army, 
in the heart of Corea — the hermit 
nation — and hear it from one who wrote by 
lantern light on the outmost ramparts to es- 
cape the terrific sounds of victory that roared 
between the shattered walls of the old city, 
while the reek of a thousand half-buried Chi- 
nese corpses rose from the darkened field over 
which the conquering soldiery still marched 
northward in pursuit of Corea's oppressors. 

Lying on the parched grass at night, with 
my cracked lantern tied to an ancient arrow 
stuck in the ground, the breeze fluttering the 
clumsy sheets of native paper on which I set 
down the details of this historic struggle, I 
could hear the jolly whistling of my blanket- 
comrade, Frederic Villiers, the famous war 
artist, as he worked on his pictures in a 
wrecked pagoda two hundred feet away. 

32 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

The armies of Asiatic barbarism and Asiatic 
civilization met on this ground to fight the 
first great battle of the war that ended in 
the fall of Wei-Hai-Wei and Port Arthur; 
and here Japan emancipated the helpless 
Corean nation from the centuried despotism 
of China. 

The Chinese fired on the Red Cross, vio- 
lated hospitals, beheaded sick soldiers, tortured 
prisoners to death, and used the white flag 
of peace to cover treachery, while the Japan- 
ese tenderly nursed Chinese captives and 
risked their lives to rescue the enemy's 
wounded. Japan covered herself with glory. 
I can bear witness to scenes of kindness and 
forbearance that shamed the military history 
of Europe. A nation that does not acknowl- 
edge Christianity planted the scarlet cross of 
Christ on the battlefield, and the thunder of 
the fight was scarcely over before the work 
of charity began among friends and foes alike. 

The hoary city of Ping Yang, once the 
capital of the hermit kingdom, sprawls down 
to the edge of the Tai-Tong River, which is 
half a mile wide and without bridges. This 

33 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

is the eastern boundary. Its crooked streets 
ascend gradually to the west and north, ending 
in steep precipices, crested with castellated 
stone walls overlooking the valley. Beyond 
are several small, timbered hills. Southward 
is a level plain, stretching westward from the 
river for three-quarters of a mile to a range 
of hills. The muddy river runs north and 
south. From the fortified heights can be 
seen a tumult of mountain tops in every 
direction. A thousand years ago Ping Yang 
was the strongest city in Asia. Its walls 
are thick and its gates massive and well placed 
on the plain. 

In forty-two days the Chinese army built 
more than thirty earthworks outside the walls 
of Ping Yang. There were miles of new forti- 
fications. Many of the walls were fifteen feet 
high, and it is hard to understand how troops 
with energy enough to work such a miracle 
of construction could be driven from their vast 
fortress by an attacking force of only ten 
thousand men. 

To the south of the city the Chinese erected 
twenty huge fortifications, loopholed and 

34 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

moated. They were garrisoned by six thou- 
sand bayonets and artillery, reenforced by a 
body of picked Manchurian cavalry, armed 
with swords and lances fifteen feet long. On 
the other side of the river they built three 
strong earthworks. 

The western and northern sides of Ping 
Yang were defended by a continuous chain 
of new works, some on the northwest angle 
being on the summits of hills. One fort was 
three hundred feet about the level plain. In 
this angle of the city, on the edge of a preci- 
pice, were massed three thousand five hundred 
Chinese infantry and cavalry from ancient 
Moukden, with a small force of artillery. Still 
farther to the west were forts on three hill- 
tops armed with Krupp and Gatling guns. 

Everywhere on the broad walls were crimson 
and yellow banners — hundreds and hundreds 
of them. Each of the six Chinese generals 
displayed an immense flag, its size indicating 
his rank. The flag of General Yeh, the com- 
mander-in-chief, measured thirty feet and bore 
a single character representing his name. 
That flag now belongs to the Emperor of 

35 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Japan. When the Japanese vanguard reached 
Whang-ju, its commander mounted a hill five 
miles from Ping Yang and through his tele- 
scope he could see a tossing line of banners 
for miles along the line of fortifications. The 
Chinese officers strutted up and down the 
walls, preceded by their individual flags, while 
drums beat and trumpets sounded defiance. 

As the Japanese army moved forward to the 
rescue, the Chinese generals made merry with 
the dancing girls of Ping Yang, renowned 
throughout Asia for their grace and beauty. All 
was pomp by day and revelry by night. The 
Chinese soldiers broke into the houses of timid 
Coreans, and treated their wives and daughters 
shamefully. Drunkenness and debauchery ran 
riot, and while the generals caroused with the 
dancing girls, the whole city was looted. Hell 
seemed to be let loose. The frightened inhabit- 
ants fled to the fields and forests — men, women, 
and children — and remained there until the Jap- 
anese army entered the city, when they crept 
back, many of them dying from starvation 
and exposure. 

This was the situation when General Oshima 

36 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

led a brigade of about four thousand Japanese 
infantry, cavalry, and artillery in sight of the 
three forts on the eastern shore of the Tai- 
Tong River. The Corean vassals were bowing 
their necks to the Chinese yoke for the last 
time. Ping Yang was to be attacked by four 
Japanese columns, marching from the coast by 
different routes. Oshima's force was to make 
a demonstration until the three other Japanese 
forces, marching in from the coast by different 
directions, had stolen into their positions around 
Ping Yang. 

The Chinese commanders, in huge specta- 
cles, heroes of many a classical debate, and 
surrounded by the painted, embroidered, and 
carved monsters of mythological war, but 
wholly ignorant of modern military science, 
awaited the oncoming of the trim little, up-to- 
date soldiers of Japan, with all the scorn of 
learned foolishness. The Chinese garrison, 
wearing boastful inscriptions on their breasts 
and backs, and clad in bright-colored apron- 
trousers and wide-sleeved fantastic jackets, 
were armed with American rifles, which they 
had recently learned how to use. 

37 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Gray old China, profoundly calm in the 
knowledge of blue and white porcelain, im- 
mersed in the scholastic beauty of the ancient 
odes, — lazy, luxurious, dreamy China — had 
bought a few thousand American rifles and 
German cannons. 

Yet you may arm a fortress with the mighti- 
est enginery of death that military science can 
evolve ; you may equip men with the most 
cunningly perfect weapons and flawless am- 
munition ; but unless the trained brain, and eye 
and body are behind the mechanical means of 
destruction, unless every unit in the army is 
controlled by the law of the whole, unless the 
flag represents to the soldier something more 
then mere authority, and war something nobler 
than the mere killing of men for pay — unless 
these elements are present, rifles, cannon, and 
repeating arms are in vain. 

A few gentle, foolish Coreans skulked 
about the streets of Ping Yang in their white 
cotton garments and monstrous hats, and 
watched the swaggering Manchurian braves 
with a dim idea that the dapper, disciplined 
Japanese battalions, clad in close-buttoned 

38 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

European uniforms, were marching to their 
doom. 

The broad Tai-Tong River lay between Gen- 
eral Oshima and the city. Two thousand 
Chinese soldiers were in the three fortifications 
in front of his brigade, and just beyond was 
an insecure bridge, resting on boats, hurriedly 
built by the Chinese. To reach this bridge 
and cross the river to the east gate of Ping 
Yang, it was necessary to take the three 
fortifications. 

For two days Oshima attacked the triple 
fortress. Then, by a clever movement, his 
bayonets carried the southern breastworks. 

The Chinese had advanced out of their 
works just before dark, sending a cow and a 
band of trumpeters ahead — a Mongolian skir- 
mishing device. There was absolute silence 
in the Japanese ranks until the enemy was 
within a distance of three hundred feet. 
Then the Chinese column was swept by vol- 
ley after volley, and took to its heels, followed 
by Oshima's cavalry, which was prevented 
from doing effective work by the dense brush. 

That night General Oshima received word 

39 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

from General Tatsumi, who had marched an- 
other Japanese brigade by a circuitous route 
to a position on the north of Ping Yang. 
Another strong Japanese force, under the 
command of Colonel Sato, had arrived from 
Gensan, and had taken up a position on the 
northwest of the city, within easy reach of 
General Tatsumi. General Nozu, the senior 
Japanese commander, had stealthily marched 
in from the southwest, and his brigade lay in 
a valley between two small hills on which 
his artillery was placed. Ping Yang was 
surrounded. 

Japanese couriers stole from camp to camp 
in the darkness, and the Japanese commanders 
agreed that the original plan of attack should 
be followed. Meanwhile, the Chinese drums 
throbbed riotously in the city, and the danc- 
ing girls beguiled the Chinese generals. 

As the night wore on, the tired Japanese 
troops moved silently on all sides toward the 
city. The moon was shining brightly, and a 
light breeze came from the northeast. The 
Japanese ranks were as perfect as though the 
army were on parade. It is a peculiarity of 

40 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

the Chinese army that its pickets and out- 
posts keep close to the fortifications, so that 
the garrison of Ping Yang had no warning 
of the advancing enemy until at three o'clock 
in the morning the skirmish lines of the four 
Japanese columns opened fire. 

General Tatsumi's infantry lay under a round 
fort on the crest of a steep bluff — the very 
spot where Konishi, the Japanese conqueror, 
broke into Ping Yang with his army three 
centuries before. A battalion of Japanese 
bayonets dashed up the steep heights, while 
another detachment of infantry charged around 
the base of the hill into a wooded valley, filled 
with graves, and, in the midst of them, the gor- 
geous tomb of Ki Cha, the founder of Corea. 

The Chinese host swarmed down the heights 
to meet their foe, fighting desperately with 
Winchester rifles. There were officers in front 
and officers behind, waving their swords, and 
urging on the Manchurian braves. From the 
walls above a storm of lead cut the leaves 
and branches from the trees, but the Japan- 
ese kept well under cover, and drove the 
Chinese up the hill foot by foot. 

41 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Just at daybreak two companies of Japanese 
infantry made a bayonet charge straight up 
the hill, in the teeth of the concentrated fire 
of five hundred repeating rifles. The gallant 
little men broke into cheers as they emerged 
from the trees and climbed the precipice, while 
the Chinese infantry retreated in confusion to 
the round fort, many of them throwing their 
rifles away. 

As the glittering line of bayonets swept up 
to the rough walls and the shouts of the ad- 
vancing soldiers rang out over the ramparts, 
the Chinese garrison abandoned the fort and 
fled behind the walls of an inner fortification. 
A few leaped over the precipice, and their 
mangled bodies rolled down into a stream. 
Captain Koqua, who led the bayonet charge, 
fell as he advanced to attack the second fort. 
At eight o'clock the garrison in the second fort 
retreated to the inmost fortification, and the 
Japanese poured in through a gate, bayoneting 
the fugitives as they ran. The Manchurians 
fought magnificently as individuals. Nothing 
could be finer than the courage with which they 
faced the terrible volleys of the Japanese in- 

42 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

fantry, but the moment a charge was made 
they ran like frightened animals, tearing the 
uniforms from their bodies and dropping their 
weapons. 

Now the artillery in the forts on the hills 
all around the city began to roar. General 
Nozu's batteries on the western eminence 
played upon the Chinese forts to the north, 
which were being attacked on the other side 
by Colonel Sato. His cannon also kept the 
twenty forts on the south of the city in a 
state of panic and prevented them from con- 
centrating their fire against Oshima's lines. 
Nozu's infantry and cavalry scoured the valley 
under the western walls of the city, and by 
a deadly cross fire kept the Chinese garrison 
in the northwest angle of Ping Yang from 
escaping the volleys of Tatsumi's troops, who 
had already taken two lines of fortifications. 

A terrific battle was in progress on the other 
side of the river, where Oshima's troops 
charged the three forts again and again under 
a terrible artillery fire, while his howitzer bat- 
teries tore gaps in the Chinese ranks. The 
Japanese soldiers were horrified by the sight 

43 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

of the Chinese hacking off the heads of pris- 
oners in the distance, and they fought furiously, 
charging up to the very muzzles of the enemy's 
cannon. One of Oshima's battalions charged 
a fort on the bank of the river and carried the 
outer walls. Here the troops fought for hours 
almost hand to hand, but the Chinese held the 
walls bravely, while a body of their sharp- 
shooters, lying behind the bushes at the edge 
of the river, kept up a deadly enfilading fire 
against the left flank of the Japanese. All the 
ground on this side of the fortification lay over 
subterranean powder mines, bat the Chinese 
in their excitement forgot to explode them. 

The great mass of forts on the southern side 
of Ping Yang rained shot and shell across the 
river, and the drifting cannon smoke was red- 
dened with the flames of Gatling volleys and 
infantry fire. The death cries of men and 
horses swelled the giant chorus of battle, 
but the yells of the infuriated Japanese soldiers 
could be heard above it all as they closed in 
upon the forts and attempted to scale the walls. 

The city was half hidden in battle smoke, and 
the crimson and yellow banners of the Chinese 

44 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

were riddled with bullets. Blood, blood every- 
where — on the walls, in the rippling river, on 
the green hillsides, in the flowering valleys. 
Blood trickling over gravestones, blood dashed 
against the walls of the ancient temples, blood 
on the rocks, blood on the roof-tops — every- 
where the cold gleam of steel in the swirling 
cannon mist and sheeted flame ; and away off 
in the treetops or cowering in the grain-fields 
the terrified Coreans, listening to the sounds of 
the mighty struggle that was to make them 
free or confirm their slavery. 

An hour after the battle opened in the dark- 
ness, two companies of Oshima's infantry crossed 
the Tai-Tong River in small Corean boats below 
the twenty southern forts, and boldly advanced 
upon the bewildering labyrinth of walls. Be- 
tween the attacking companies and the forts 
was a wide moat filled with water and mined 
with torpedoes. A thousand Chinese bayonets 
advanced to meet the Japanese, but were driven 
back across the moat, inside of the fort. 

The sky darkened and rain fell. To the 
amazement of the Japanese soldiers, the Chi- 
nese troops planted huge oiled-paper umbrellas 

45 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

on the walls of their forts to keep them dry- 
while they fought. In every direction Chinese 
umbrellas could be seen, glistening like turtles 
on the earthworks. 

Now came the most magnificent spectacle of 
the battle. The garrison in the city, unable to 
withstand the withering fire of the Japanese, 
were attempting to feel their way out. A body 
of two hundred and seventy Manchurian cav- 
alry, mounted on snow-white horses, moved 
from the northwest angle of Ping Yang, gal- 
loped along a road skirting the city's western 
wall, and on reaching the southern end of the 
road, suddenly wheeled and charged down the 
valley, where Nozu's troops were stretched 
across from hill to hill between his batteries. 

On went the splendid troops of warriors, and 
the earth shook as they thundered into the val- 
ley, with their long black lances set and pen- 
nons dancing from the shining spear-points. 
A few were armed with rifles and bayonets. 
On, over the stream and through the rice-fields, 
a heaving mass of blue and scarlet, rising and 
falling on billows of white horses and bristling 
with steel. 

4 6 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Not a man stirred in the Japanese line, as the 
Manchurians swept down on the centre, pre- 
pared to cut their way through and escape. 
When the cavalry were within two hundred feet, 
the earth seemed to open and vomit smoke and 
flame, as the united Japanese infantry and artil- 
lery opened fire upon the doomed horsemen. 
Horses and riders went down together, and 
were hurled in bloody heaps. Forty of the 
Manchurians escaped through the line, but 
were cut in pieces by a separate company of 
Japanese cavalry in the rear. 

Three hundred more rode out from the artil- 
lery-swept heights — three hundred brilliantly 
clad warriors, also on white horses. Halting for 
a moment, and setting their long lances, they 
charged down the slope. The dense smoke in 
the valley prevented them from learning the fate 
of their comrades who preceded them. As they 
galloped forward, the Chinese artillerymen 
cheered them. Down into the gray mist of 
death they went, and when they reached the 
middle of the valley, the Japanese line fell upon 
them. Not a man escaped. A third charge of a 
hundred horsemen resulted in utter annihilation. 

47 



ON THE GREAT HTGHWAT 

The scene was horrible beyond words to tell, 
and the streams on either side of the valley road 
were red with Chinese blood. After the battle, 
there were counted in a space of two hundred 
yards the bodies of two hundred and seventy 
horses and two hundred and sixty men. 

The rain continued to fall in torrents, and the 
Chinese soldiers on the walls, huddling under 
their umbrellas, blazed away blindly. All this 
time the storming party in the two captured 
fortifications at the northwest angle of the city 
was pressing the troops in the inner forts, send- 
ing volley upon volley over the walls. This was 
the key of the situation. The Japanese com- 
manders could see the great flags of the Chinese 
generals just beyond. 

At four o'clock in the afternoon the Chinese 
hoisted a white flag on the inner fort, and a party 
of Japanese officers descended from the cap- 
tured positions to parley at the gate. The Chi- 
nese officers gravely announced that it was 
impossible to surrender in the rain, as the wet 
weather prevented them from making the 
proper arrangements for a capitulation. If the 
Japanese would stop fighting until the next 

4 8 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

day, and the weather cleared, the city would be 
surrendered. 

The watchful Japanese officers observed Chi- 
nese troops stealing forward along the walls 
under cover of the flag of truce. They answered 
that an army that could fight in the rain could 
also surrender in the rain. They insisted that 
the hoisting of the white flag over the enemy's 
works was an act of surrender and demanded 
that the gate should be thrown open so that the 
Japanese troops might enter without further 
bloodshed. Again the bedizened Chinese offi- 
cers pleaded for delay. It was raining very 
hard, and the mud was very deep. It would 
be a terrible thing to move the garrison out of 
shelter ; but to-morrow they would cheerfully 
go away. 

It was evident that the crafty Chinese were 
merely trying to gain time. The Japanese re- 
newed the assault and fought long into the 
night. Every now and then flights of Corean 
arrows came whizzing through the darkness. 
The Chinese were forcing the childish native 
soldiers into the fight, slashing them over the 
shoulders with whips. Hour after hour the 

49 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

hungry and exhausted soldiers struggled on 
the slippery and bloody hill. Those who were 
killed fell headlong over the ramparts into the 
valley. The rain beat in the faces of the fight- 
ers and drenched their bodies as they pressed 
on in the gloom, their path lit only by the blaze 
of the rifle volleys. The fighting had ceased on 
all other sides of the city. The whole Chinese 
garrison, with the exception of the Moukden 
troops defending the northwest angle had fled 
in the darkness between the forces of Colonel 
Salo and General Nozu. 

As the Chinese retreated through the valley 
they cut the heads and hands from the Japanese 
dead. They broke into the Japanese hospital 
quarters, butchered and beheaded the wounded 
men, and swept to the north with their dancing 
girls and bloody trophies. 

The Japanese fighting on the heights above 
caught a glimpse of the flying troops among 
the trees in the valley below and sent a volley 
into their flank. 

After twenty-two hours of continuous fighting 
General Tatsumi's infantry carried the inner 
fortifications of the northwest angle by sheer 

50 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

dash. At one o'clock in the morning they 
scaled the walls. The Chinese garrison howled 
and ran about like hunted wolves. They jumped 
over the parapets and crawled under the bushes. 
As they ran they threw away their arms and 
uniforms. 

Meanwhile General Oshima's brigade had 
gained the rude bridge on boats and had 
crossed the river. A bullet wounded him in 
the side, killed the interpreter behind him, and 
passed through a regimental flag. 

Thirty Japanese war correspondents, armed 
with enormous swords, entered Ping Yang at 
the head of the army, and fought until they 
were exhausted. The general was compelled 
to issue an order prohibiting newspaper men 
from fighting. 

When day dawned Ping Yang was in the 
hands of the Japanese army. The scene 
around the city was ghastly. For miles the 
ground was littered with dead men and horses. 
Thousands of gay Chinese uniforms were scat- 
tered on the field. At the first sign of defeat 
the officers and men had stripped themselves of 
their outer clothing in order to claim immunity 

5i 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

as merchants. Nine hundred prisoners were 
taken, and not a man was in uniform. 

All along the ramparts of the city the ground 
was covered with empty cartridge shells. In 
some places they lay an inch deep. Thousands 
of birds of prey were feeding on the dead lying 
among broken lances, overturned cannons, heaps 
of camp wreck, torn banners, swords, and dead 
horses. 

That victory ended the power of China in 
Corea. 

After gathering the story of the battle, I 
travelled in a junk down the Tai-Tong River 
and thence along the Corean coast in a steamer 
to Chemulpo. From that city a messenger took 
my despatch over the sea to Japan, and from 
there it was sent to San Francisco and tele- 
graphed across the continent to New York. 

When I arrived in the dirty little Corean sea- 
port, weary and sickened by the bloody field of 
Ping Yang, a messenger handed me a cable- 
gram from Ohio. It contained two words — 
"Boy — well." It was the announcement of 
the birth of my first child. Thirteen tissue 
paper tags, bearing the seals of thirteen differ- 

52 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

ent headquarters of the Japanese army, showed 
that the news had been carried from battlefield 
to battlefield to reach me. The news of a new 
life was brought to me from the other side of the 
world, just as I sent word of a thousand freshly 
slain. 

That night, on my way back to Ping Yang, 
I found the main Japanese fleet at the mouth 
of the Tai-Tong River. Admiral Ito had 
defeated the Chinese fleet, and had just fallen 
back on the Corean coast for repairs and ammu- 
nition. It was a great opportunity for a war 
correspondent. No other newspaper man had 
reached the victorious fleet, and fortune had 
given to me the first story of the most important 
naval fight of modern times — the battle of the 
Yalu. 

When I boarded the flagship HasJiidate, Ad- 
miral Ito was asleep, but he dressed himself 
and sent for his fleet captains in order to help 
me out with the details of the conflict. 

As the Japanese admiral sat at his table, sur- 
rounded by his officers, with the rude charts of 
the battle spread out before him, he looked 
like a sea-commander — tall, eagle-eyed, square- 

53 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

jawed, with a sabre scar furrowed across his 
broad forehead ; a close-mouthed man whose 
coat was always buttoned to his chin. Bending 
over the maps and smoothing out the paper 
with his sinewy, big-knuckled hands, the lamp- 
light gleaming against his powerful face, he 
was a man not easily forgotten. 

And when the tale of that thrilling , struggle 
on the Yellow Sea was over, the admiral turned 
to me smilingly. 

" It is a big piece of news for you," he said. 

"Yes," I answered, "but I have received a 
still greater piece of news." 

Then I drew from my pocket the cablegram 
announcing the birth of my boy, and read it. 

" Good ! " cried the admiral. " We will cele- 
brate the event. Steward, bring champagne ! " 

Standing in a circle, the admiral and his 
captains clinked their glasses together and 
drank the health of my little son. 



54 



CHAPTER III 

Interview with the King of Corea 

ONE night as I slept in my field-dress 
on the floor of a captured Ping Yang 
palace, I was awakened by the sound 
of angry voices, and saw the treacherous native 
governor of the province, lying bound' in his 
splendid silken robes, like a great scarlet 
butterfly, with a stern little Japanese colonel 
standing over him, and commanding his sol- 
diers to strip the white jade pigeon — a sacred 
sign of authority — from the trembling pris- 
oner's official hat. 

" I could do nothing but submit," whined 
the governor. "The Chinese army had pos- 
session before your army came." 

"You are a coward and a traitor," growled 
the colonel, spurning the prisoner with his 
foot. 

So, almost from the time of Christ, the 
Corean nation had crouched in fear between 

55 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Japan and China, prostrating itself alternately 
before the rival thrones. 

A traveller in Corea is bewildered by the 
effects of three thousand years of hermit life 
upon this strange people. They are not sav- 
ages. Thirty centuries of civilization are set 
down in their literature. Nowhere else in the 
world have I seen such magnificent specimens 
of physical manhood. The ordinary European 
is a pygmy among the tall, straight, powerful 
Coreans. An indescribable gravity and dig- 
nity of manner lends itself to the impressive 
grace and strength and the noble features of 
this ancient race. As the men become old 
they grow long beards, which add to their 
naturally majestic bearing. 

Yet the Coreans are the emptiest-headed, 
most childlike, and most generally foolish peo- 
ple among civilized nations. They are the 
grown-up children of Asia. Their ignorance 
is not like the ignorance of Central Africa. 
Hundreds of years ago, they inspired Japan 
with the love of art, and their literature is as 
old as Egypt. They are gentle and meditative. 
Throughout the Corean peninsula, stately quo- 

56 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

tations from the noblest Chinese odes are 
painted on the public buildings, in the quaint 
summer pagodas, and on the walls of dwelling 
houses. Their very battle flags are inscribed 
with philosophic sayings. 

But the Coreans are drugged with abstract 
scholasticism and demonology. They are cred- 
ulous almost beyond belief. A white-bearded, 
spectacled Solomon, who can recite whole poems 
from the Chinese classics, will tell you gravely 
that there are not more wells in Ping Yang, 
because the city is an island and, if too many 
holes were cut in the bottom, it might sink. 
There is a spirit for the hill, another one for the 
valley, another for the rice-field, another for 
the woods, another for the river, another for 
the house, and so on, endlessly. Cut off from 
active intercourse with other nations for thou- 
sands of years, the Coreans represent the most 
remote ages of mystic Oriental civilization. 

The mountainous, many-templed peninsula 
has been swept by many wars. More than a 
century before the Christian era began, the 
native king defeated a Chinese army on the 
banks of the Tai-Tong River. Nearly seven 

57 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

hundred years afterward, the Emperor of China 
sent three hundred thousand soldiers to conquer 
Corea and failed. His successor raised a 
force of a million warriors, armed principally 
with trumpets, banners, and gongs, and was 
again baffled. More than two hundred thou- 
sand of the yellow host died on the soil of 
Corea. And yet, a generation later, China sent 
another army to subdue the hermit nation. 
Corea massed a hundred and fifty thousand 
lancemen, swordsmen, and archers. A great 
battle was fought near Ping Yang, and after 
twenty thousand of his men had been slain, the 
Corean general surrendered and the Chinese 
divided among themselves fifty thousand horses 
and ten thousand coats of mail. 

War after war reddened the mountains and 
valleys, and still a native dynasty remained on 
the hermit throne of Corea, the same profound 
desire for isolation from the rest of the world 
pervaded the people. 

Three centuries ago Japan invaded the little 
kingdom. The King of Corea appealed to China 
for help. The Japanese defeated the united 
Chinese and Corean armies, and, after one 

58 




The King of Cere a 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

battle cut off the ears and noses of thirty-seven 
hundred dead enemies, packed them in casks, 
and sent them to Japan to make the famous ear- 
mound of Kioto. Three hundred thousand 
houses were burned when the conquering army 
put the city of Keku-shiu to the torch. 

In spite of her centuries of suffering, in spite 
of the invasions and rebellions, Corea remained 
a recluse among the nations. Her king cheer- 
fully consented to be the vassal of China or 
Japan, or both at the same time. All he asked 
was to be let alone with his gentle, dreamy peo- 
ple and his soft-eyed dancing girls. 

This was the attitude of the King of Corea 
when I talked with him at Seoul. He was grate- 
ful to the Japanese for emancipating him from 
the Chinese, but he hinted that some nation — 
the United States, for instance — might find it 
convenient to emancipate him from the emanci- 
pators. He longed for a return to the ancient 
national quiet — philosophy, poetry, and solitude. 

Not having eaten of the lotus flower, I felt 
criminally modern in this venerable country. 
The solemn old men, with their big spectacles, 
flowing beards, umbrella-like hats, yard-long 

59 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

pipes, and calm faces, pacing majestically along 
the narrow streets or on the winding mountain 
paths, seemed to rebuke the news-hunting fever 
in my veins. What was an American news- 
paper — born every morning only to die at 
night — to that mild, contented people, whose 
civilization had survived the shocks of three 
thousand years ? What could the telegraph, 
telephone, steam engine, or printing press add 
to their happiness ? 

The native crew of the junk that carried me 
down the Tai-Tong River from Ping Yang mu- 
tinied. I called the leader to me and let him 
look through my powerful field-glasses. Then 
I allowed him to look through the wrong end of 
the glasses. After that I unscrewed one of the 
lenses and, concentrating the rays of the sun, 
burnt a hole in the wooden deck. 

That settled it; the crew surrendered and 
went to work. But not one of them dared to 
touch even my clothes, lest I might bewitch him. 

At Chemulpo I saw a gigantic Corean porter, 
who could lift twelve hundred pounds on his 
shoulders, burst into tears when my eighteen- 
year-old Japanese interpreter slapped his face. 

60 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

He was strong enough to have killed the inter- 
preter with a single blow ; but it never seemed 
to occur to him to strike back. 

When I reached Seoul, the picturesque capi- 
tal of Corea, having slept in my riding boots all 
night on the deck of a little British steam launch 
beside Dr. Sill, the American minister, I found 
that the King — alarmed by the presence of the 
victorious Japanese army on his soil — had re- 
fused to receive any more visitors, withdrawing 
himself even from direct communication with 
the foreign ministers. 

An interview with the King would give a 
quaint variety to the endless descriptions of 
fighting. The American public must be allowed 
to see the inmost throne of the royal palace ; 
American journalism must invade the presence 
of the hermit monarch — to touch whose person 
was an offence punishable by death — see his 
face, question him, and weave his sorrows into 
some up-to-date political moral. The artificial 
majesty of kings, after all, counts for little before 
the levelling processes of the modern newspaper 
power. It may be intrusive, it may be irrever- 
ent, it may be destructive of sentiment ; but it 

61 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

gradually breaks down the walls of tradition and 
prejudice that divide the human race. It intro- 
duces the king to the peasant. It makes the 
East known to the West in an understandable 
dialect. It is the subtlest, swiftest element in 
the chemistry of modern civilization. 

There was one foreigner alone who could 
reach the King at that time — the King's doctor. 
That man was Dr. Horace N. Allen, then Sec- 
retary of the American Legation, and now 
American Minister to Corea. A sovereign who 
lives in daily dread of poison is bound to be on 
intimate and friendly terms with his physician. 
Through Dr. Allen's intercession I secured his 
Majesty's consent to an interview. 

But how was I to secure the conventional 
swallow-tail costume in which I must appear in 
the palace ? My rough corduroy riding dress, 
spurred boots, flannel shirt, and slouch hat were 
all I had. The situation was tragic. The 
American Legation sat in council on the subject 
and solved the problem. The American Minis- 
ter lent me a tall hat, white shirt and collar. A 
naval lieutenant lent me a pair of black trousers, 
and an officer of marines contributed a swallow- 

62 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

tailed coat with a vest to match. I borrowed 
the shoes of the Minister's son. Thus arrayed, 
with the Minister's generously large hat slipping 
down on my ears, I went with Dr. Allen to see 
his Majesty, Li Hsi, ruler of the Land of Morn- 
ing Calm, in behalf of the shrieking, news- 
paper-worshipping American multitude. 

We were carried in curtained sedan chairs 
through the swarming, crooked streets of old 
Seoul to one of the great gates of the palace. 
There we alighted, and followed a solemn 
chusa, clad in a blue silk robe adorned with 
white stocks, who trudged on before us into 
the royal grounds in big, ceremonial, black 
cloth boots. 

The King's palace consists of four or five 
hundred rambling houses set within giant 
stone walls. Acres and acres of dull tiled 
roofs rise above tawdry dwellings daubed with 
red, blue, yellow, and white, with here and 
there fantastic gargoyles of carved wood peer- 
ing out from under quaint Asiatic eaves. 

There was an air of desolation over it all. 
The hall and lotus pond, where the King lan- 
guished among his dark-eyed dancing girls, 

63 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

were deserted, and spiders were spinning their 
webs across the entrance. Water purled wan- 
tonly from a broken fountain. A shattered 
door, gilded and tinted, lay at the side of an 
empty shrine. Now and then a lazy official 
in an enormous hat and silken robe shambled 
out of a doorway, and looked at us. The 
sleepy, dilapidated sentries presented arms 
— many of them guns without locks — as we 
passed through the age-worn streets of the 
royal demesne. Once we caught a glimpse 
of a woman's face, half veiled, at a win- 
dow — probably one of the King's beautiful 
slaves. 

Three thousand people usually live in the 
palace grounds, but that day it was like a 
deserted town but for the slouching, uneasy 
guards. Treachery lurked in every shadow ; 
murder crouched in every street. Only a few 
months later the Queen — she who poisoned 
so many of her rivals — was assassinated in 
these grounds and burned to ashes. 

We walked for about a quarter of a mile 
among the old buildings, and then we came 
to an open pavilion surrounded by latticed 

6 4 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

screens, where Hong Woo Kwan, the moon- 
faced interpreter of the American Legation, 
clad in a richly embroidered court dress, met 
us, and seated us at a small table. A moment 
later a smug, smiling Corean rustled in, shook 
hands with himself, and bowed to us. He was 
the King's cook, a man not to be overlooked 
in a monarchy whose destinies are so often 
controlled by poison. Champagne and cigar- 
ettes were set before us. Here we sat until 
the King sent word that he was ready, and 
the guard was turned out to salute us. 

The way led through a small wooden gate 
guarded by seven or eight awkward soldiers, 
three of whom were without arms. A few 
steps along a crooked lane, lined with gor- 
geously painted little houses, brought us to 
another small gate, also closely guarded, and, 
on passing through it, we found ourselves in 
a curious paved courtyard, on the opposite 
side of which was a frontless room, raised 
above the ground like a stage in a theatre, 
with wooden steps at the side leading up to 
it. As we crossed the yard and ascended the 
steps, we could see the King surrounded by 

65 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

his palace officials — remarkably like a group- 
ing in some drama. 

In another moment I was face to face with 
the unhappy sovereign of Corea. He stood 
behind a table, in front of a gaudily uphol- 
stered European chair, with his small, nervous 
hands crossed lightly over his ceinture, — a 
slender, shy man, with an oval face, thin, 
silky mustache and chin beard, a kind, vo- 
luptuous mouth, and soft, dark eyes. He 
had the eyes of a beautiful girl. When he 
smiled he hung his head on one side, half 
closed his eyes, looked straight at us, and 
opened them slowly with the expression of a 
bashful woman. The King did not extend his 
hand. To touch him intentionally is death ; to 
touch him by accident means that the offender 
must wear a red cord around his wrist for 
the rest of his life. It was once a capital 
crime to look at him in the streets. The 
King's person is divine. When he goes 
abroad in his city all doors must be shut and 
the owner of each house is compelled to kneel 
before his door with a broom and dustpan in 
his hand as emblems of humility. All the 

66 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

windows must be sealed lest some one should 
look down upon the monarch. So sacred is 
the person of the King, that when he moves 
outside of his palace two sedan chairs, exactly 
alike in appearance, are carried by the guards, 
and no one but the highest ministers knows 
in which chair the King sits. 

Yet I could see no good reason why an 
American newspaper correspondent should not 
be quite comfortable in the presence of this 
exalted being. He was for the moment 
simply "a big piece of news." 

The King was clad in a crimson silk robe 
with wide sleeves, yoked at the shoulders 
with cloth of gold, and caught at the waist 
by a gold-buckled, loose, black belt. A haze 
of black gauze covered the royal mantle, and 
a sparkling jewel held it across the breast. 
He wore on his small, shapely head a strange 
structure of stiffened black net, not unlike 
the semi-transparent framework of an Ameri- 
can woman's bonnet. It rose in the form of 
an exaggerated Phrygian cap, and was pro- 
vided with grotesque, black wings standing 
upright. The monarch's legs were enveloped 

6 7 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

in huge, baggy trousers of white silk, and his 
swathed ankles bulged out above embroidered 
Corean shoes. On either side stood two rat- 
eyed, watchful eunuchs in pale blue robes, 
their dark faces scowling and their hands 
hidden in the folds of huge sleeves. 

To the right of the King the crown prince 
leaned against a table, a half-witted, open- 
mouthed youth, attired like his father, save 
that his mantle was purple. General Ye, the 
commander-in-chief of the army, stood on the 
left of the crown prince, velvet-eyed, green- 
clad, a mighty jewelled sword gleaming at his 
side. 

The courtiers were spread out on the stage 
in a half circle like a many-colored fan. 
The ceiling of carved rafters overhead was 
a confused whirl of colors. The walls were 
latticed and panelled with translucent native 
paper. 

Three slow bows and a pause. The twenty- 
eighth king of Corea was about to undergo 
the ordeal of a newspaper interview, an expe- 
rience undreamed of by his predecessors. The 
interpreter folded his hands across the embroid- 

68 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

ered storks on his bosom, bent his head rever- 
ently, and advanced. 

" I am glad to receive a representative of the 
American press," whispered the King in the 
ear of the bowed interpreter, who whispered the 
words to me without daring to move his head. 
" It is my wish and the wish of my people that 
Corea shall be absolutely free and independent. 
I appeal now and I shall continue to appeal 
to the civilized nations of the world to assist in 
preserving the integrity of my kingdom. I 
especially rely upon the United States. The 
American government was the first to make a 
treaty with Corea, and that treaty contains a 
promise of help in time of danger. I look to the 
United States for a fulfilment of that promise. 
My faith in your country is unshaken. When 
other nations threaten me, I turn to America." 

" But how can the United States help you 
now ? " I asked. 

The King looked embarrassed, and his 
whispering grew fainter than ever. It was 
plain that he felt constrained in the presence 
of his courtiers. He hesitated, looked about 
him nervously, then said : — 

6 9 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" If a few American soldiers were sent to 
the palace to protect my person, it would 
change the situation." 

I had heard many stories concerning the 
pressure put upon the King by the Japanese 
— that he was continually under duress ; that 
a sword was drawn upon him before he signed 
the treaty making Corea a military ally of 
Japan ; that he was kept in a constant state of 
terror by a reduction of the palace guard to a 
handful of untrained, half -armed louts ; and 
that he was unable to sleep at night for fear 
of sudden attempts upon his life. But this 
was the first time that the King had publicly 
avowed that he was practically a prisoner in 
his own capital. The rest of the interview 
related to matters that were interesting at that 
time but are hardly worth setting down here. 

While the King was speaking, I could see a 
pair of glittering black eyes peering through 
an opening in the screen. Behind the screen 
stood the famous Queen whose ashes were 
soon to be scattered over her own garden. It 
was this extraordinary woman, who, when dis- 
guised and flying for safety in 1884, unveiled her 

70 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

bosom to deceive her foes, crying, " See ! would 
the Queen of Corea do that ? Would she not 
die first ? " All through the interview the 
Queen watched us from her place of conceal- 
ment. She never allowed her royal husband 
out of her sight in those days of peril, fearing 
that the dread Tai Won Kung — the former 
regent — intended to destroy the King and 
put his grandson, General Ye, on the throne. 

As I retired from the presence of the King, 
General Ye came forward leaning on the 
shoulders of his jewelled attendants — a stal- 
wart, bright-looking young man with the bear- 
ing of a European gentleman. 

The interpreter gravely informed me that 
the general desired me to know that he had 
arrived, which I knew by the fact that he was 
standing within ten inches of me. He said 
that the general hoped that my health was 
very good. Then he remarked that the gen- 
eral wished to inform me that he was going, 
which I suspected from the circumstance that 
the general had already turned his back upon 
me and was walking away. 

Then to the Tai Won Kung, the mightiest 

7i 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

figure in modern Corean history. We walked 
on through the little lane which brought us to 
the King, passed through a sentinelled gate, 
and beheld the dwelling of the real ruler of 
Corea, a low building with a gray-tiled roof 
and broad veranda, reached by terraced flights 
of stone steps. The old hero stood on the 
threshold. He shook hands with me like an 
American politician. In spite of his seventy- 
eight years, his voice was trumpet-like. His 
laugh was a roar, accompanied by a convulsion 
of his whole body. 

" We are ready to open Corea to the world," 
he said, as he ordered tea to be set before us. 
" The country can no longer be kept sealed to 
foreigners. But this change is too sudden. 
Corea is a peculiar country. For thousands of 
years our people have clung to their usages. 
The customs of ages cannot be given up in a 
day. The surrender to Western civilization 
must be gradual. That is the way of old 
Asia." 

As the laughing giant sprawled back in his 
chair and joked with us over the fragrant tea, it 
was hard to believe that, thirty years before, he 

72 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

had beheaded hundreds of innocent Christians 
to gratify his hatred of the " Western barba- 
rians," and had ordered wholesale butcheries of 
his own countrymen, because they had dared to 
champion the cause of modern civilization. 

Poor, dreaming Corea ! Some day the Ameri- 
can syndicates will get hold of her, and her 
crimes against common sense will be expiated. 



The King of Corea is now an Emperor. 
Already the clang of the electric trolley car 
and the clamor of the gold miner are heard in 
his dominions. Steam railways and cotton mills 
are to be built. The protection sought for by 
the Emperor has been found, not in American 
bayonets, but in jealous American capital. The 
sober, foolish hermits listen to the footsteps of 
approaching Western civilization with an un- 
formed sense of terror, for the gods of eternal 
calm cannot live with the god of the useful. 



73 



CHAPTER IV 

A Ride with the 'Japanese Invaders in 
Manchuria 

AFTER sweeping the armed Chinese 
hordes from Corea, the Emperor of 
■ Japan sent twenty-three thousand of 
his brave little men to conquer China — a rich 
and venerable empire of four hundred million 
inhabitants — and they did it. 

The steamer that carried General Hasagawa 
and his brigade of Kumomoto troops, to join 
the army of invasion on the Manchurian coast 
afforded endless entertainment to Frederic 
Villiers and me. The queer war dances and 
singing processions of the Japanese soldiers 
kept the British war artist busy at his sketch- 
book. Yet there was an inexpressible sense of 
order and neatness in all parts of the crowded 
troop ship, a feeling of law and obedience that 
surpassed anything I have seen on an American 
or European transport. 

74 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

When we reached the coast of Manchuria, a 
bleak stretch of uninteresting shore, backed by 
treeless hills and dotted here and there with 
tile-roofed farmhouses, the whole Japanese 
force — men, horses, ammunition, food, and 
cannons — was carried to the land in little flat 
skiffs. It was a marvellous feat. 

But the most extraordinary thing about our 
landing was the appearance of hundreds of 
smiling, tall Manchurians, who waded out 
in the shallow sea and helped to pull the 
boats of the invaders ashore. It was not fear 
that induced the pig-tailed giants to assist in 
the invasion of their soil, but a mere absence 
of national sentiment. We saw abundant signs 
of this spirit of indifference afterward, and 
that day the Japanese laughed heartily at the 
lack of patriotism in Manchuria, and predicted 
the swift collapse of China. 

" We will take the Emperor from Peking in 
chains within three months," said one of Hasa- 
gawa's colonels as he rode through the mud on 
the shoulders of a cheerful native, playfully 
tickling the fellow's thighs with his spurs. 

All along the coast could be seen the 

75 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

steamers from which the main Japanese army, 
commanded by Field-marshal Count Oyama, 
had just landed, and the great fleet of warships 
which had convoyed the invaders across the 
Yellow Sea. 

We were now in the Liatong peninsula, the 
ancient home of the once dreaded hosts of 
Manchurian horsemen, who imposed their own 
pigtail on the Chinese as a sign of conquest. 

As the field-marshal had moved on to attack 
the walled city of Kinchow and the seven great 
forts of Talien-wan, which lay between us and 
Port Arthur, the mightiest fortress in Asia, we 
were bound to follow at once and overtake him 
before the fighting began. 

Mounted on little ponies, borrowed from a 
Japanese officer, Mr. Villiers and I rode along 
the track of the advancing army, leaving our 
interpreters and baggage to catch up with us 
in any way they could. 

All day we moved through a desolate coun- 
try, almost barren of trees, with now and then 
a few acres of rice or corn or millet growing in 
the level ground between the rocky hills — the 
well-built little houses and the tawdry Buddhist 

7 6 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

shrines on the roadside deserted, windows 
and doors smashed and the small gardens tram- 
pled flat. 

At night we could see the flames of burning 
settlements, and several times we rode through 
the smouldering ruins of Manchurian villages, 
with none to greet us but troops of starving, 
howling dogs, snapping at the legs of our 
ponies, until a revolver shot would rid us of 
their attentions. 

The moonlight lay white on the road, so that 
we were able to keep our course. The camp- 
fires of the Japanese coolies — the unarmed 
laborers who accompany all Japanese armies — 
began to redden the way. As we hurried on 
we could see the tired, barefooted men, gath- 
ered around caldrons of steaming rice. Occa- 
sionally we would overtake a silent squad of 
soldiers pushing on towards the front. 

As the night wore on and our ponies showed 
signs of exhaustion, Mr. Villiers decided to join 
a coolie camp for food and rest until the morn- 
ing. I did not dare to stop. An artist might 
tarry on the road and gather materials for his 
pencil, but a correspondent, responsible for the 

77 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

news, must not halt. The field-marshal was 
ahead, and with him there might be rival corre- 
spondents. Who knew what might happen 
that very night ? The clatter of my pony's 
hoofs seemed to intensify the loneliness of the 
way as I pressed on, leaving my experienced 
comrade to find sleep on the hard roadside. 
An hour later I passed a dead Manchurian 
peasant lying with ghastly upturned face beside 
the glowing ashes of a farmhouse. The coun- 
try grew more desolate. The moon sank. It 
was hard to find the way. Again and again I 
had to dismount and, with my bull's-eye lantern, 
seek out the trampled track of the army. Once 
in a while I could hear the faint clink-clank of 
the Japanese soldiers working somewhere near 
the road on the field telegraph line. Presently 
a mounted Japanese courier dashed by me in 
the darkness, shouting something I could not 
understand. 

Now there was no sign of life anywhere, no 
friendly light, and no sound but the beating of 
my tired animal's feet. My pony began to 
stumble. Twice I lost the road. There was 
danger that I had ridden too far and was on 

78 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

hostile ground. The darkness prevented me 
from seeing the surrounding country. I dis- 
mounted and examined the road with my lan- 
tern. There was not a trace of the army to be 
seen. My heart sank. What with hunger and 
the fatigue of my terrible ride, I was ready 
to sink to the ground. I tried to mount my 
pony again, but the poor beast went on his 
knees. 

At that moment I heard the harsh challenge 
of a Japanese sentry, and with an answering 
cry of " Nippon ! " ("Japan!") I ran forward 
to find myself on the outmost picket line of 
Oyama's escort. Presently an officer appeared, 
and I explained in French that I was in search 
of the field-marshal. He told me that I had 
ridden two miles beyond the headquarters, and 
sent a soldier to lead my horse as I retraced 
my way. 

When I reached the farmhouse where the 
field-marshal slept, I was glad to crawl under 
a blanket between two hospitable staff officers 
lying on a wooden couch. They sleepily in- 
formed me that nothing important had hap- 
pened, but that the advance brigade, which 

79 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

was ahead of us, would attack the walls of 
Kinchow the next day. Thank God ! I was 
not too late. In a minute I was fast asleep. 

Daybreak found us in the saddle, with the 
fat Japanese field-marshal, a good-natured, 
kindly old politician, riding at the head of his 
staff. As we moved forward, a courier arrived 
from the front with news that the advance 
guard was in sight of Kinchow. We spurred 
our horses and pressed on with all possible 
speed. At noon we halted under a huge pine 
tree and lunched with the field-marshal, who 
passed about a tin pail of dried peas roasted 
over a fire. Each man took a handful of peas 
and crunched them under his teeth. 

" It is all we have," said Count Oyama, 
laughingly, " but eat heartily, gentlemen ; if we 
capture Kinchow, we shall fare better to-night" 

A sudden sound of heavy cannon firing in 
the distance interrupted the frugal meal. The 
fight at Kinchow had begun. Every man 
leaped to his saddle, and off we went at a 
gallop. But, alas, when we reached the scene 
of the battle, Kinchow had been taken. The 
little walled city founded by Manchurian war- 

80 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

riors three hundred years before had been 
abandoned after an artillery duel of an hour, 
and we rode through the dynamite-shattered 
city gate to see the pavements stained with the 
blood of a few women, children, and old men, 
accidentally killed by shell fire, and the terri- 
fied inhabitants kowtowing on their knees to 
their conquerors. 

We passed right through the city, and in the 
plain beyond we found the reserves of General 
Yamaji's division. The famous one-eyed divi- 
sion commander — the most terrible personality 
and the best fighter in the Japanese army — 
had ordered Noghi's and Nishi's brigades to 
attack the seven immense forts surrounding 
Talien Bay, six miles from Kinchow, — mighty 
masses of masonry, carrying forty- and fifty-ton 
Krupp rifles and protected by earthworks, de- 
scending at some points almost perpendicularly 
into the sea from a height of three hundred 
feet. These works were a triumph of German 
engineering and military science — massive, 
impenetrable, connected at all angles by tele- 
phones, and guarded against naval attacks by 
a harbor thickly strewn with torpedoes. 

81 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Here the Japanese generals expected to find 
a strong Chinese force, and they were prepared 
to lose thousands of men in the battle. 

There were three positions to be attacked. 
On the left of the bay was Fort Jokasan, with 
five five-inch rifles commanding the water ; and 
a mighty redoubt, with three-inch Krupp field 
pieces covering the land approach. To the 
right of the bay, on the hills, were three large 
forts, — Seidaisan, Cosan, and Lo-Orrian. The 
first two were armed with six- and seven-inch 
Krupp guns, and the third with six- and eight- 
inch Creusot guns. Stretching out in the middle 
of the bay was a tongue of rocky country ending 
in a high hill, on which were built the three 
powerful Oshozima forts, defended by six- and 
seven-inch Krupp guns. 

A thrill of expectant fear ran through the 
army as the great guns of Jokasan were turned 
upon the advancing Japanese regiment on the 
left of our line. For two hours the hills shook 
with the shock of the battery. All the other 
guns in the chain of forts surrounding the har- 
bor were sending shells wildly about the coun- 
try. The regiment attacking Jokasan advanced 

82 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

at a double-quick. Then it charged. The Jap- 
anese first reached three large intrenched earth- 
works, from which came a sputtering musketry 
fire. Two or three quick volleys were fired, and 
a few Chinese soldiers were seen dashing away 
from the earthworks, stripping off their uni- 
forms as they ran. 

Suddenly the guns of Jokasan were silent. 
The Japanese fixed bayonets and made a 
charge up the huge mass of masonry and earth- 
works, only to find the stronghold absolutely 
vacant. The gunners had crossed the bay in 
small boats, and the rest of the garrison had 
sneaked away along the shore. The great fort 
with its magnificent guns and enormous stores 
of ammunition had been surrendered almost 
without a blow. It was an astounding situation 
— so inexplicable that General Yamaji sus- 
pected a masked movement. But that ended 
the battle for the night. 

I slept that night in a Kinchow shop, lying 
down in the darkness on a soft wreck of mer- 
chandise, and when I awoke at daybreak I 
found myself stretched out on heaps of embroid- 
ered silks, with mandarins' hats and boots and 

83 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

wonderful jackets and glittering ornaments 
scattered about in brilliant confusion, my pillow 
being a painted wooden monster without a head. 
It was like fairyland to awaken in such a scene 
of shimmering splendor. But I must confess 
that the most glorious thing in that room was a 
plain tin of Chicago corned beef. Such is the 
coarse nature of a war correspondent after a 
forced march on dried peas and water. 

All night Noghi's brigade had waited at the 
approach to the three Oshozima forts. Here 
great slaughter was expected. When there was 
light enough to move, the advance began across 
a wrinkled, stony valley. A terrific sound of 
gongs and drums was heard in the forts, and 
the brigade halted for a few minutes. The fact 
was that the Chinese had abandoned Oshozima 
during the night. They had sent back forty or 
fifty soldiers to secure the personal property of 
the officers. These men were surprised by the 
Japanese, and hoping to frighten the enemy 
and gain time, they were pounding the alarm 
apparatus in the forts. The Japanese line 
swept straight up the giant escarpments, but 
not a gun was fired. They began to realize 

84 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

that there was no enemy before them. Here 
and there they could see a Chinaman skulking 
away. 

Then the great batteries of Lo-Orisan, on the 
right side of the bay, began to pour shells into 
Oshozima. Nishi's brigade boldly advanced 
against the three forts. For three hours there 
was a deafening cannonade. We could see the 
shells from the Creusot rifles exploding all along 
the hillside. But every shell went wide of the 
mark. The Chinese gunners ran wildly up and 
down behind the ramparts of the forts. When 
the Japanese skirmish line got within range, 
and their bullets began to patter over the 
Chinese guns, the garrison of the fort ran down 
the hillsides and fled toward Port Arthur. 

So the seven great modern strongholds of 
Talien-Wan fell into the hands of Japan. By 
nine o'clock in the morning all was over, and a 
position which two regiments might have held 
against a whole army was given up. 

As the Japanese troops were advancing 
against Oshozima, I rode with General Yamaji 
and his staff into one of the smaller entrenched 
works on the plain below. A Chinese shell, 

85 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

exploding near me, wounded my horse and 
threw me to the ground, breaking one of my 
ribs and injuring my knee. In that condition 
I had to ride back to Kinchow. The wounds 
were not serious, but the bandages which the 
Japanese surgeons applied were fearfully im- 
pressive, and when Mr. Villiers arrived that 
night — after losing his horse and walking 
thirty miles over the hills to find me swathed 
like a hero — he looked absolutely envious. 

The jolly old field-marshal gave the pawn- 
shop of Kinchow to Mr. Villiers and myself as 
a residence. It was an interesting place. The 
Chinese troops had looted the storerooms before 
they retired from the city, and we found furs 
and costly silk robes and gold and silver orna- 
ments scattered about on the ground in the 
courtyard, with rare old enamelled head-dresses, 
chains, and chatelaines — treasures of the local 
aristocracy — tangled up in piles of silver 
bracelets. 

The next day, the white-bearded, blue-clad 
giant who owned the place returned and knelt 
down to thank us for letting him sit down in 
his own house. We gave him a bottle of cham- 

86 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

pagne, which the field-marshal had sent to us 
with a pair of live chickens. The old Manchu- 
rian sniffed at the foaming wine and eyed us 
suspiciously. Were we trying to poison him ? 
He raised the cup again and again to his lips, 
shivered and set it down without tasting. 
Then he swallowed the cupful and waited for 
the sensation. His dark eyes rolled upward 
and his face softened. An expression of inef- 
fable peace came into his aged countenance. 
Putting the bottle to his lips, he drained it, 
smacked his lips, and crossed his bony hands on 
his stomach contentedly. His eyes brightened, 
his cheeks grew rosy. Death had no terrors 
now. 

"Where do you get it?" he said to our 
interpreter. 

" In France." 

" How far away is that country ? How long 
does it take to get there ? " 

Two days later, we took a walk on top of the 
great wall that ran around the stricken town and 
saw a sight of horror. 

Seven women and three little girls were 
dragged out of a well in an old garden, and laid 

87 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAT 

stiff and dripping among the faded flowers and 
drifting leaves. They had drowned themselves 
when the Japanese began to shell the place, 
fearing the fate that befalls women after Asiatic 
victories. 

There they lay, entwined together in a last 
embrace, a silent memorial of the virtue of 
Manchurian women. Four were the wives 
of prominent men ; the others were their 
daughters and servants. 

The victorious army went rumbling on 
through the streets — horses, men, baggage 
carts, cannon — and the brilliant pageantry of 
the field-marshal's staff swept around the cor- 
ner. But none saw the ten stark figures in the 
high-walled Chinese garden ; none save a group 
of tearful men, too cowardly to fight in defence 
of their homes, and the two pitying war corre- 
spondents on the city wall. 

Yet Kinchow was once the home of chivalry 
and heroism. Here the hereditary knights of 
Manchu reared the walls of a city three hun- 
dred years ago, and planted their banners. But 
in the principal temple, before the forsaken 
gods of Manchuria, where countless warriors 

88 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

had sworn allegiance to their country, a Chi- 
nese soldier, in full uniform, committed suicide 
while the Japanese army was entering the city. 

Who can explain this craven instinct in a 
once valorous race ? It is not hard to under- 
stand how men can have political loyalty and 
patriotism educated out of them; but surely 
women, who prized their honor, and their hus- 
bands' honor, more than their lives, were worth 
dying for in battle. 

After a few days' rest we moved on toward 
Port Arthur. The battery of thirty siege guns 
was still floundering on the roads in the rear, 
but Hasagawa's brigade of Kumomoto men had 
caught up with the field-marshal, and the whole 
army of invasion was assembled for the final 
stroke — about twenty-three thousand men, and 
forty-eight guns. 

While Oyama's army moved forward across 
the rough country, the main Japanese fleet, com- 
manded by Admiral Ito, steamed slowly along 
the peninsular coast, constantly exchanging 
communications with the field-marshal. 

As the splendid columns marched through 
the valleys and over the hills, now wading in the 

89 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

streams, and now sprawling painfully among 
loose, jagged rocks, or plodding heavily in drift- 
ing sand, the wonderful discipline and endurance 
of the Japanese soldiery displayed itself. No 
flags, no music, no pomp ; a silent, businesslike 
organization, magnificently equipped and offi- 
cered, with one common purpose uniting thou- 
sands of men — the glory of Japan. 

Mr. Villiers and I had abandoned the field- 
marshal's headquarters and rode with General 
Yamaji, the one-eyed, — a coarse, reticent, sinister 
man, demoniac in his energy and temperament, 
but modest, and the finest soldier in the East. 
It was a hard march, with little food, and, at 
times, no water. When our vanguard ap- 
proached the scene of the coming battle, a part 
of the Chinese garrison advanced out of Port 
Arthur and surprised a small body of Japanese 
cavalry scouts in the depth between the hills 
which adjoins the valley leading to Port Arthur. 
I arrived at the front just in time to see Nishi's 
brigade send flanking columns around the hill to 
cut off the Chinese. 

I could see the Chinese advancing in three 
columns from the southwest and northwest. It 

90 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

was a brilliant procession of flags and banners. 
The sound of gongs and squeaking trumpets 
came faintly up from the moving pageant. 

Away to the left were the Japanese cavalry- 
men in a cloud of dust, cutting their way back 
on the main road through the line of tossing red- 
and-white standards. The brave little scouts 
had dismounted and were firing carbine volleys, 
while a few squads of Japanese infantrymen 
were creeping to the rescue and keeping up a 
brisk peppering. There were at least fifteen 
hundred Chinamen in the three columns. 

Suddenly the enemy caught sight of our rapid 
flank movement and fled. I rode down the main 
road and joined the scouts as the Chinese force 
disappeared through the hills. The Japanese 
had lost eight men in the fight, and forty-two 
were wounded. The Japanese dead lay on the 
roadside, headless and mutilated. Several 
bodies were without hands ; two had been 
butchered like sheep. It was this mutilation of 
their dead which the Japanese afterward cited 
as a partial justification of the slaughter of 
unarmed men at Port Arthur. 

Accompanied by the correspondent of the 

9i 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

London Times, I rode the next day with a re- 
connoitring party into the wide valley that leads 
to Port Arthur. We left our main escort con- 
cealed behind a grove of trees, and moved 
cautiously toward the distant cannon-crowned 
hills, the little group of Japanese officers carry- 
ing their revolvers in their hands. A lieutenant 
and sergeant rode ahead. Just as we came to a 
rising in the ground there was a sudden blaze of 
rifle fire and the lieutenant dashed back alone. 
The Chinese pickets had wounded and captured 
the sergeant. We afterward heard that the 
poor fellow was crucified alive in Port Arthur. 

" Run for your lives ! " shrieked the colonel 
commanding our party, as he dug the spurs into 
his horse. 

We retreated to a grassy knoll and watched 
the Chinese sharpshooters creeping here and 
there in an attempt to surround us. But they 
were too cowardly to close in. Presently we 
saw a cloud of dust sweeping down through the 
head of the valley from which we came, and in 
a few minutes a battalion of Japanese infantry 
came to our rescue, Mr. Villiers, my gallant 
camp comrade, riding in front. 

92 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

A line of Japanese skirmishers drove the 
enemy back to a slope in front of Port Arthur, 
where we could see them waving their gorgeous 
banners and dragging a field-gun into position. 

Towering upon the hills behind and to the left 
of them was a multitude of forts, but not a can- 
non was fired. The hilltops on the west side of 
the valley were dotted with Chinese sentinels, 
while squads of watchful Japanese soldiers were 
grouped on the opposite heights. Horsemen 
were scouring the ravines and roads in all direc- 
tions, to guard against a surprise. There was a 
touch of Indian fighting in the scene. 



93 



CHAPTER V 

Battle and Massacre of Port Arthur 

ALL was ready for the battle of Port 
Arthur, and the Japanese army was 
already moving through the night into 
position for an attack upon the sixteen great 
modern forts at daybreak. 

The little group of saddle-weary foreign cor- 
respondents stood around a heap of blazing 
wood while their horses were being fed by the 
excited coolies. The wide valley flamed and 
roared with the camp-fires of the invading host, 
and thousands of dust-covered coolies moved in 
the darkness with the ammunition and food. I 
anxiously watched a small man pacing slowly 
before a smouldering fire around which were 
gathered a few whispering staff-officers. His 
head was bowed, and his hands were locked 
behind his back as he moved. It was General 
Yamaji, the terrible little division commander 
— he who deliberately plucked out his own eye 

94 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

at school to show his comrades that he was not 
a coward. Our fate depended upon this man, 
for he was the real general of the attacking 
forces, the stout old field-marshal being a politi- 
cal rather than a military element in the 
situation. 

Yamaji turned away from the fire, and with a 
surly nod of the head to his officers mounted 
his horse. The staff followed his example. I 
swung myself into the saddle and joined the 
general as he pushed forward with the right 
wing of the army across the head of the valley 
and around the face of the western hills, in 
preparation for the turning movement which 
was to be the key of the battle. 

We were carried along in the darkness with 
a horrible sense of universal motion, on the 
edges of giant earth seams and steep precipices, 
with the artillery clanging and grinding, and 
the ponderous siege batteries groaning over the 
loose stones in the dry river beds ; horses 
plunging and stumbling, with mountain guns 
strapped on their backs ; the swift clatter of 
the cavalry sweeping backward and forward 
with news of the enemy, the steady tramp and 

95 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

murmur of the infantry ; the crawling lines of 
coolies attending the fighting men ; now and 
then a horse and rider rolling down over the 
rocks ; frightened steeds shying at camp-fires ; 
a procession of ammunition boxes carried along 
like black coffins ; occasionally a glimpse of a 
ravine with rivers of bayonets gleaming at the 
bottom of it ; anxious and hungry skirmishers 
creeping on their bellies along the ridges of the 
distant peaks — and yet, a curious hush over 
it all — the sense of a secret to be kept. 

Not a sign of a flag, the roll of a drum, nor 
the note of a bugle; nothing but the rush of 
human feet, the beat of hoofs, the crunching of 
wheels, and the clank of cold steel. 

It made a man grow cold to be near Yamaji 
and see the gleam in that one eye. There were 
sounds of voices around him as the swift mes- 
sengers came and went in the gloom, but it was 
a strange babble of Asiatic accents, falling 
weirdly upon the ears of a New York news- 
paper writer, borne along atomlike in that 
human torrent. 

If ever a man can realize the insignificance of 
the individual compared with the force of organ- 

9 6 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

ized society, if ever there can be borne in upon 
his understanding the fact that his true measure 
in the world is the five or six feet that span 
the length of his grave, if ever he can be over- 
whelmed by a sense of loneliness in the midst of 
a multitude, it should be in such a scene as this. 

Mile after mile we rode in the dark, through 
valleys and over hills ; hour after hour the 
eager troops moved with us, and just as the 
faint, cold light appeared in the eastern sky, we 
reached the head of the right wing of the army, 
where Yamaji dismounted and was greeted 
by Noghi. 

We climbed to the top of a rocky peak, and 
saw before us, on a hill, Isuyama, the triple 
fort which was the key of the fight. It was 
an oblong quadrangle, with high, thick earthen 
walls, connected by a strong shelter wall with 
a still larger and stronger square fort on 
higher ground, above which ran another wall 
to a great round redoubt commanding the 
valley and town of Port Arthur. 

Shut in by hills on all sides, we could see 
nothing but the triple fort with its lines of 
gay flags, for we had made a detour of eight 

97 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

miles in order to surprise the Chinese by a 
western attack, instead of advancing straight 
down the valley. To the left were our moun- 
tain batteries, stealthily planted on a ridge the 
day before. 

Below and in front of us was a dark line 
of Japanese infantry kneeling in a ploughed 
field, waiting for light enough to storm Isu- 
yama, and in the gully to our right was another 
battalion of bayonets ready for the signal. 
Thousands of men were massed in the rear. 

Everything was silent and motionless in 
the dawning light. Yamaji lifted his cap and 
made a signal. The Japanese mountain bat- 
teries began to play upon Isuyama and the 
kneeling line in the field below us fired volley 
after volley at the tops of the rough, brown 
walls. 

Instantly the battlements were crowded with 
warriors in red, yellow, blue, and green, and 
the guns of the triple fort seemed to cover 
the hillside with flame and smoke. The Chinese 
had five-inch Krupp rifles, and nine-inch mortars 
with auxiliary batteries of revolving and quick- 
firing guns. 

9 8 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

Shells began to drop from all sides. Even 
the great sea forts, with their mighty twelve- 
inch rifles, and all the forts along the valley 
of Port Arthur, aimed over the hills at us ; 
for Isuyama was the key and, once it should 
fall, the whole left flank of the Chinese would 
be exposed. The taking of the triple fort 
was to be a signal to the rest of the Japan- 
ese forces. We could not see the giant forts 
in the distance, but we could hear the scream- 
ing of their shells overhead. 

As the Chinese batteries splintered the 
hillside and sent clouds of earth up out of 
the ploughed ground, the Japanese line kneel- 
ing at the base of the slope in front of 
Isuyama stood up and advanced in the teeth 
of the guns, firing continuously as they went. 
The shock of the cannon explosions made 
the banners on the walls of the three forts 
dance. The Chinese stuck to their guns. On, 
on, pressed the slender, dark line, with trails 
of fire and smoke running up and down the 
ranks. The Japanese soldiers moved as pre- 
cisely as though they were on parade. Then the 

battalion waiting in the ravine moved forward 
L. of C. 

99 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

in column formation on the right, to attack 
the side of the nearest fort As the thin 
skirmish line reached the steep scarp in 
front of the thundering walls, it suddenly 
swung around and joined the column on the 
right, and the united battalions, with fixed 
bayonets, rushed up the steep slope toward 
the side wall, while the Chinese shells tore 
gaps in their ranks. 

By this time a mountain battery had been 
carried up on the dizzy ridge where Yamaji 
stood, the soldiers pressing their bodies against 
the horses to keep them from slipping; and 
five minutes afterward six guns were dropping 
shells inside of the first fort. The Chinese 
gunners leaped backward from their batteries. 

With a ringing yell the Japanese dashed 
up to the fort and scaled the ramparts by 
sticking bayonets in the earthwork, shooting 
and bayoneting the garrison, and chasing the 
enemy along the connecting walls. 

A cheer went up from the hills and valleys 
as the victorious troops pushed on into the 
second fort, and finally captured the great 
redoubt on top of the hill, while the fugitive 

ioo 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Chinese scrambled down into the valley on 
the other side. 

Once in the redoubt the whole battlefield 
lay stretched before us, with its miles of rolling 
smoke and roaring guns. At the head of the 
valley was the comfortable old field-marshal 
and the reserve centre, with its crashing field- 
guns and siege battery. We were on the right 
of the main valley. On the left of the valley, 
just opposite to our position, were seven strong 
Chinese forts. The three looking north were 
the Shoju forts, while the four facing westward 
were the Nerio or "Two Dragon" forts. At 
the foot of the valley was the town of Port 
Arthur, spread about the enclosed harbor and, 
beyond it, towering up on the sea ridge, were 
six immense modern forts, powerful masses 
of masonry, standing alone on separate hill- 
tops, shielded by mighty earthworks, and 
armed with the heaviest and newest rifles 
and mortars. No fleet in the world would 
have dared to attack such a position from 
the sea. One of these sea forts was Ogunsan. 
It stood four hundred and fifty feet above the 
town. To the east of it were the Lo-Leshi 

IOI 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

forts. The other three sea forts were on a 
tiny peninsula to the west of the harbor, and 
were known as the Manjuyama forts. Hasa- 
gawa's brigade had moved along the seacoast 
and was attacking the Shoju and Nerio forts 
on their eastern sides and harassing the Lo- 
Leshi forts on the coast. 

When we entered the redoubt overlooking 
this vast scene of conflict, Yamaji's officers 
tore the white canvas side from a Chinese 
tent, and, cutting a disk from a red Chinese 
banner, made a rude Japanese flag and hoisted 
it on a Manchurian lance. The signal of vic- 
tory could be seen from every fort. Instantly 
the redoubt became an artillery target. The 
ground about it was shaken by the explosion 
of shells. The air was filled with screaming 
sounds as great projectiles from the sea forts 
passed overhead. 

But Yamaji stood out on the wall of the 
redoubt in plain sight, as silent and unmoved 
as a carved image, while showers of shattered 
rock and earth fell about him. It was a face 
to study — cold, stoical, Asiatic. The battle 
seemed to bore him ; it was too easy. There 

102 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

was not enough bloodshed. His one eye 
searched the scene like the eye of a machine. 
Once he smiled and showed his yellow teeth — 
a ghastly smile. 

Yet only a few days before I saw Yamaji 
release the little singing birds found in the 
Talien-Wan forts lest they might starve in 
their cages — so strangely is mercy and cruelty 
compounded in the human heart. 

The Japanese field and siege guns were 
pounding away at the seven forts on the other 
side of the valley, and Yamaji's mountain 
batteries joined them. It was a colossal duel 
of war enginery. Through the great arches 
of fire and smoke came shrieking shells and 
the close confidential hum of rifle bullets at 
one's ear — those invisible messengers of death 
which seem to speak to each man separately. 

The arsenal in Port Arthur had caught 
fire and was ripping, roaring, and rattling, 
vomiting flame and smoke like a volcano, as 
half an acre of massed shells and cartridges 
exploded. Miles and miles of red and white 
banners fluttered on the Chinese walls stretched 
between the seven forts on the opposite ridge. 

103 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

We could see the Manchurian warriors rushing 
along these walls, and hear the din of their 
gongs and trumpets. Two or three Chinese 
battalions with enormous flags were stationed 
on the lower hills, out of reach of the Japan- 
ese artillery fire, and in a position to resist 
Yamaji, should he cross the valley. The 
Shoju and Nerio forts were the prey of Hasa- 
gawa, who charged up from the eastern valley, 
taking advantage of earth seams and irregu- 
larities in the ground. Two torpedo mines 
were exploded in front of his lines, but the 
Chinese touched the keys too soon. All over 
the valley were sunken mines connected by 
wires with the walled camps and forts, but 
somehow the enemy failed to use them. 

Just as the front rank of Hasagawa's brigade 
was dashing up to the Shoju forts, a Japanese 
shell set one of them on fire, and with a roar 
and shock that stopped the battle for a moment, 
the shells for the heavy guns, piled on the 
floor of the fort, exploded. The Chinese 
garrison fled over the ridges, and Hasagawa's 
men came sweeping around the rough hill to 
find the fort a mass of flames, heaving and 

104 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

reeling as the fire reached additional stores 
of shells. That ended all hope of defending 
the seven forts. The Chinese abandoned one 
fort after the other, and retreated. Hasagawa 
was in possession of the Shoju and Nerio 
hills. 

But the most dramatic scene in the battle 
was yet to come. After taking Isuyama, 
Yamaji's infantry had clambered down the 
precipitous face of the bluff into the valley, 
and, having driven the Chinese out of a forti- 
fied barrack, were huddled behind the huge 
structure. Beyond this lay the smooth naval 
parade-ground of Port Arthur, and on the 
other side of it, a shallow stream with a long, 
narrow, wooden bridge on stilts. At the other 
end of the bridge were rifle-pits filled with 
Chinese infantry, defending a road leading 
into the town between two small hills, on which 
were three field-guns manned by the only good 
gunners on the Chinese side. 

Hasagawa had captured one side of the 
valley. Yamaji was in possession of the other 
side. The town of Port Arthur had yet to 
be taken. Yamaji was nervous and jealous. 

105 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

It was plain that unless his troops moved 
quickly, Hasagawa, the only general outside 
of his division, might have the honor of taking 
the town itself and the colossal Ogunsan fort, 
the monarch of the coast. 

Every time Yamaji's men attempted to move 
away from the cover of the barrack walls the 
Chinese riflemen in the pits beyond the bridge 
swept the smooth parade-ground with steady 
volleys from Winchester repeating rifles. Again 
and again the Japanese started out, only to 
retreat before the hail of bullets. 

Yamaji ground his teeth. His face was livid 
with rage. In vain his staff officers shouted 
from the redoubt to the troops below to make 
a charge across the bridge. In vain the gen- 
eral made fierce gestures. The Japanese had 
struck good Chinese fighting men for the first 
time since Tatsumi's troops stormed the north- 
west heights of Ping Yang. 

The little battery on the hill, commanding 
the bridge and the road to the town, was 
barking and playing the mischief with the 
Japanese sharpshooters on the walls of the 
barracks. Occasionally the great guns of 

1 06 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Ogunsan spoke, but the shells went far and 
wide. The shrill rattle of distant musketry 
could be heard over the hills where Hasagawa's 
men were slaughtering the retreating garrisons 
of the seven forts. Thousands of the enemy- 
were trying to escape eastward. Troops of 
plumed Manchurians on white horses swept 
away through the ravines. 

From the torn ramparts of the redoubt we 
could see a line of eight or nine Japanese war- 
ships stretched parallel with the coast, with 
columns of spray jetting up from the badly 
aimed shells of the sea forts. Torpedo boats 
darted about the entrance of the harbor, firing 
upon junks loaded with fugitive inhabitants. 

Yamaji stood twitching his hands murderously, 
and glaring through his one eye at the regi- 
ment skulking behind the barrack below. No 
words can describe the fury of that fearful 
countenance. 

The Japanese army had actually been halted 
by Chinamen at the threshold of Port Arthur ! 
A half-mile more and the Chinese Empire 
would be conquered ! 

The crouching regiment suddenly sent out 

107 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

skirmish lines to the right and left, and these, 
gaining the shelter of low walls on the edges 
of the drill-ground, delivered a hot fire into the 
flanks of the Chinese rifle-pits. A battalion 
knelt in a semicircle on a plateau in the rear of 
the barrack and sent volley after volley against 
the stubborn defenders of the road. 

Under the cover of this fire a small column 
dashed over the bullet-swept space, crossed the 
bridge, drove the Chinese sharpshooters out of 
their intrenchments, and seized the battery on 
the hill behind. At the same time the field- 
marshal ordered the reserve centre to move 
down the valley from the village of Suishiyeh, 
and thousands of men came rushing along the 
roads behind the troops already pressing into 
the doomed town. 

At this point I left Yamaji, and climbing down 
the face of the bluff into the valley, made my 
way across the drill-ground and the bridge to 
the top of a hill on the edge of the town. Here 
I found the British and American military at- 
taches. We watched the vanguard of Japan as 
it entered Port Arthur, firing volleys through 
the town as it advanced. 

1 08 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Not a shot was fired in reply. Even Ogun- 
san was silent and deserted. The Chinese gar- 
rison had escaped. The frightened inhabitants 
cowered in the streets. 

Then began the meaningless and unnecessary 
massacre which horrified the civilized world and 
robbed the Japanese victory of its dignity. Up 
to that time there was not a stain on the Japa- 
nese flag. 

As the triumphant troops poured into Port 
Arthur they saw the heads of their slain com- 
rades hanging by cords, with the noses and 
ears shorn off. There was a rude arch at the 
entrance to the town decorated with these bloody 
trophies. It may have been this sight which 
roused the blood of the conquerors, and ban- 
ished humanity and mercy from their hearts ; 
or it may have been mere lust of slaughter — 
the world can judge for itself. But the Japa- 
nese killed everything they saw. 

Unarmed men, kneeling in the streets and 
begging for life, were shot, bayoneted, or be- 
headed. The town was sacked from end to 
end, and the inhabitants were butchered in their 
own houses. 

109 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

A procession of ponies, donkeys, and camels 
went out of the western side of Port Arthur 
with swarms of terrified men and children. 
The fugitives waded across a shallow inlet, 
shivering and stumbling in the icy water. A 
company of infantry was drawn up at the head 
of the inlet, and poured steady volleys at the 
dripping victims ; but not a bullet hit its mark. 

The last to cross the inlet were two men. 
One of them led two small children. As they 
staggered out on the opposite shore a squadron 
of cavalry rode up and cut down one of the 
men. The other man and the children retreated 
into the water and were shot like dogs. 

All along the streets we could see the plead- 
ing storekeepers shot and sabred. Doors were 
broken down and windows torn out. 

The sound of music — the first we had heard 
since the invasion began — drew us back to the 
drill-ground, where all the Japanese generals 
were assembled to congratulate the field-mar- 
shal — all save Noghi, who was pursuing the 
enemy among the hills. What cheering and 
handshaking ! What solemn strains from the 
band ! And all the while we could hear the 

no 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

rattle of volleys in the streets of Port Arthur, 
and knew that the helpless people were being 
slain in cold blood, and their homes pillaged. 

That was the coldest night we had known. 
The thermometer suddenly went down to 
twenty degrees above zero. I found my way 
up the valley to Suishiyeh, although I was so 
tired that I twice had to lie down on the 
roadside. There was nothing to eat in the 
little house where I slept, but the field-mar- 
shal sent me a bottle of Burgundy. For two 
weeks I had not taken my boots off. 

In the morning I walked into Port Arthur 
with the correspondent of the London Times. 
The scenes in the streets were heartrending. 
Everywhere we saw bodies torn and mangled, 
as if by wild beasts. Dogs were whimpering 
over the frozen corpses of their masters. The 
victims were mostly shopkeepers. Nowhere 
the trace of a weapon, nowhere a sign of re- 
sistance. It was a sight that would damn the 
fairest nation on earth. 

There was one trembling old woman, and 
only one, in that great scene of carnage, 
her wrinkled face quivering with fear, and her 

in 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

limbs trembling as she wandered among the 
slain. Where was she to go ? What was 
she to do ? All the men were killed, all the 
women were off in the frozen hills, and yet 
not an eye of pity was turned upon her, but 
she was jostled and laughed at until she turned 
down a blood-stained alley, to see God knows 
what new horror. 

Port Arthur was a rambling town of small 
dwellings and shops which grew up about the 
great modern Chinese naval depot, with its 
wonderful dry-dock, the largest in Asia. 

When Oyama advanced from Kinchow, his 
chief of staff, Major Cameo, sent a captured 
spy into Port Arthur with the following letter 
addressed to General Ju, the Chinese com- 
mander who fled with his army from Talien- 
Wan: — 

" To his Excellency, General Ju : — 

" I am familiar with your great reputation, but 
I am sorry I have never met you. For many 
years I was military attache at Peking, and I 
thought to make your acquaintance. I regret 
that I must now meet you in the field. 

" Our army has taken Kinchow, and I learn 

112 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

that your Excellency, being unable to defend 
that city, retreated to Port Arthur. But 
this is not your fault — rather the fortune of 
war. 

" The soldiers you command are all newly re- 
cruited, and their number is small. On the 
other hand, our troops have had many years 
of thorough training, and are brave in battle. 
They are not to be compared to yours. Our 
numbers are also superior to yours. We have 
about fifty thousand men. 

" We are about to march on Port Arthur. It 
is not necessary to predict the result, or say 
which side will have the victory. Your troops 
were defeated in the first battle at Asan. They 
were also vanquished for a second time at Ping 
Yang, and for a third time at the Yalu River. 
Your forces were also defeated on the sea. In- 
deed, you have not had a victory. 

"This being the case, the will of Heaven seems 
to be plain. Your Excellency no doubt intends 
to defend Port Arthur, but it will be useless to 
attempt it. Our army is fighting for humanity 
and right, and if any resist us, they will be de- 
stroyed ; but if any one throws away his weapon, 
he will be treated kindly, and according to his 
rank. 

" Will your Excellency believe my word and 
surrender to us ? This is not only the happiest 

113 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

course for your Excellency personally, but the 
best and wisest course for your nation. 

" Notwithstanding the fact that I have not 
made your acquaintance, I take the liberty of 
letting your Excellency know the facts. 

" Cameo. 
"Nov. 15, 1894." 

It is not necessary to describe in detail the 
pitiless murder of two thousand unarmed in- 
habitants of Port Arthur which gave the lie to 
this official promise of Japan. Whatever I may 
have written of that three days' slaughter at a 
time when Japan was seeking admission to the 
family of civilized nations, it is only just to say 
that the massacre at Port Arthur was the only 
lapse of the Japanese from the usages of 
humane warfare. A witness for civilization, I 
could not remain silent in the presence of such 
a crime. The humanity and self-control of the 
Japanese soldiery during the historic march of 
the allied nations to Peking, seven years later, 
— notwithstanding the cruelty and barbarism of 
some of the European troops, — have redeemed 
Japan in the eyes of history. The Japanese 
have demonstrated to the world that their civili- 
zation is substantial. 

114 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

But even in the delirium of Port Arthur, not 
a Chinese woman was harmed — yes, one, — 
but she was killed by a volley directed against 
men. Women were fired at as they fled when 
the troops entered the town, but it was impossi- 
ble to distinguish men from women in that fly- 
ing rabble. 



After crossing the Yellow Sea to Japan, and 
sending the story of Port Arthur to the New 
York World — whose war correspondent I was 
— I went to Tokio to attend the national cele- 
bration of the Japanese victories. The scene in 
Uyeno Park was one of strange and never-to-be- 
forgotten beauty. It was said that four hun- 
dred thousand persons were gathered together 
in that great festival. 

Fantastic maskers danced under the shadows 
of gnarled and twisted pines ; thrilling sounds 
of singing filled the air, and from a thick grove 
came the long, sweet booming of a hidden bell. 

Old Japan, with her top-knotted men and 
her child-women — graceful, poetic, innocent 
Japan — rustled and glided about in waves of 

ii5 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

color and life ; and high above the heads of the 
joyous multitudes were the mimic heads of 
Chinamen swinging from poles — ghastly re- 
minders of the scenes I had left behind me. 

The crown prince was there, and the nobles 
of Japan, and as the vast processions moved 
along they sang the new ode written by the 
Japanese poet, Fukushi : — 

Flag of the morning sun ; 

Flag of the morning sun ; 

Across the rolling waves of the ocean to a far distant land. 

Confronted by the Imperial intelligence of our great lord, 

by the invincible hosts of our warriors, — who can hope 

to conquer ? 

Refrain : 

Teikoku banzai ! banbanzai ! 

Flag of the morning sun ; 

Flag of the morning sun ; 

By thy favor we have multiplied the glory of our land ; 

we have pressed forward with speed. 

The strongholds of the enemy have fallen continuously ; 

the ships of the enemy have been ground to powder. 

The war has been victory upon victory. 

Refrain : 

Teikoku banzai ! banbanzai ! 

Flag of the morning sun ; 
Flag of the morning sun ; 
To our sunland there is no parallel in the world. 

116 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

We have but one spirit of loyalty. Even to boys and 
maidens, if for thy [the Emperor's] sake, we are ready 
to die ; for the sake of our country we grudge not our 
bodies. 

O Mountain Cherry ! send out thy perfume in the morn- 
ing sun. 

Refrain : 

Teikoku banzai ! banbanzai ! 



In considering the astonishing result of the 
war between Japan and China, it is important 
to remember that the most decisive elements 
in the struggle were the presence of a passion- 
ate national sentiment on the one side, and 
the almost complete absence of patriotism on 
the other side. This alone explains what is 
otherwise inexplicable. The Chinese were well 
armed, and were righting on their own soil 
behind great fortresses equipped with every 
death-dealing device of modern military sci- 
ence. But they were devoid of that pride of 
country, that fierce love of national glory, 
which thrilled the Japanese soldiery. So far 
as the Chinese were concerned, their flag rep- 
resented a mere abstraction, a distant, invisible, 
almost unthinkable authority, having no direct 

117 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

relationship to the individual, and manifesting 
itself in an endless system of squeezing, through 
the doddering old mandarins and their brutal 
retainers. To die for such a flag seemed as 
foolish as the tears of Mark Twain at the grave 
of Adam. The proclamation of the Chinese 
Emperor, issued at the most critical stage of 
the struggle, called upon the inhabitants of 
Manchuria to resist the invaders — not because 
their own manhood and honor would be stained 
by the conquest of their soil, not because their 
homes were threatened, not because they were 
to be enslaved by a foreign government, but 
for the reason that the tombs of the Emperor's 
ancestors at Moukden were in danger of dese- 
cration. 

To the Japanese soldier, the flag of Japan 
stood for his own honor. His patriotism was 
simply an extension of his personal pride. 
Deep in his heart was the feeling that he who 
served Japan best, served God and the world 
best. It was that sentiment, that conviction, 
which developed the soldier spirit. 

No man who has seen the two races in the 
field can doubt that the Chinese and Japanese 

118 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

are equally contemptuous of death. They 
are all fatalists. But the cold, passionless, 
abstruse Chinese system of civilization, the 
mysticism surrounding the throne, the remote- 
ness of the imperial person from all under- 
standable human connection with its subjects, 
has gradually denationalized China, and robbed 
the Chinese of any personal inspiration to shed 
their blood for the sake of their soil. 

Since the battles of Port Arthur and Wei- 
Hai-Wei, the " Boxer movement " has called the 
attention of statesmen to the fact that a national 
sentiment is springing up in China, not because 
of the imperial government, but in spite of it. 

And it may be that after the Chinese have 
learned to love China well enough to fight for 
her, they may love her enough to purge her of 
cruelty, and corruption, and idle scholastic 
vanity — love her enough to want to see her 
honored among the nations for her humanity 
and usefulness. 



119 



CHAPTER VI 

The Avatar of Count Tolstoy 

WHILE I was investigating the per- 
secution of the Jews in Russia for 
the New York Herald, and trying 
to keep the Emperor's busy police from pene- 
trating the secret of my mission, a letter from 
James Gordon Bennett directed me to find 
Count Tolstoy, and learn whether his real views 
of modern marriage were presented in "The 
Kreutzer Sonata," the extraordinary book which 
was then attracting attention throughout the 
civilized world. 

A few hours' railway journey from St. Peters- 
burg to Tula, and a dashing ride in a three- 
horse sleigh, through a snowstorm, brought me 
to Yasnia Poliana, the little village in the heart 
of European Russia, where the great novelist 

120 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

dwelt with his wife and children, among the 
rough peasants. 

Altogether a strong face. A massive, wrin- 
kled brow ; blue-gray eyes, able to see the inside 
and outside of a man at once ; a powerful, flat- 
nostrilled nose, jutting between high cheek 
bones ; a mouth made for pity ; a vast gray 
beard ; a giant body clad in a coarse peasant's 
dress, gathered in at the waist under a stout 
leather belt ; feet shod in shoes made by the 
brown, sinewy hands of the wearer. 

Such was Count Lyoff Tolstoy, the god of 
Russian literature, as I found him in the sav- 
agely bare house where his greatest novels 
were written. 

It was all so strange, — and it was stranger 
still to an American writer, fresh from hard- 
headed London, Paris, and New York, — to sit 
with the great master in this house, whose doors 
were never closed to the hungry or weary, 
whose table was always spread, whose owner 
called every wandering pilgrim a brother. 

That night, as I lay in the Count's little iron 
cot, among his books, I heard the clock strike 
twelve, and it would not have surprised me if 

121 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

the clock had struck thirteen, so unusual were 
the ways of that wonderful place. 

At the rough little table on which " War and 
Peace" and "Anna Karenina " were penned, I 
sat for hours with Count Tolstoy, struggling 
against the force of his sweeping condemnations 
of marriage as it is and not as it ought to be. 
And then I came to know how the husband of 
a high-souled, loving woman and the father of 
thirteen children came to write that awful pro- 
test against married life in the nineteenth 
century. 

When the wild Count was married, nearly 
thirty years before, his wife was a mere child. 
It was this young girl — a slender beauty of 
good family and fine breeding — who for years 
strangled the cynicism that lurked in the novel- 
ist's ink bottle. When he was writing "War 
and Peace " she read his manuscript, page by 
page, and pleaded with him to strike bitter and 
fierce things out of his work, so that youth and 
innocence might share his beautiful thoughts 
without having to look into unveiled depths of 
loathsomeness. No man had a happier life, 
and no man owed more to marriage. But for 

122 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

the influence of this young wife, the pages of 
his greatest novels might have been spoiled by 
the brutalities which she persuaded him to 
abandon. 

These things the Count confessed with 
almost boyish frankness. And yet, so complex 
is human nature and the workings of the human 
mind, that no man in the whole range of 
literature has held bitterer views of the influ- 
ence of women upon the higher nature of men. 
As I saw these two sitting together, after thirty 
years of unbroken love and sympathy, it was 
hard to believe that I was talking to the author 
of the " Kreutzer Sonata." 

Ten years before I went to Yasnia Poliana, 
Count Tolstoy was reading the story of the 
execution of a group of officers who planned 
the liberation of the serfs under Nicholas I., 
when he was seized with a longing to write a 
romance on the subject that would stir the 
world. 

" But to write such a story I must learn the 
Russian language more thoroughly," he said to 
the Countess. " The great ethical truths of the 
world must be repeated in a new dialect every 

123 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

generation. I will go out on the road that runs 
past our house and talk to the pilgrims who are 
going to the holy places in Moscow. I will write 
down every new word that has any new mean- 
ing to me. I must learn to write as the peas- 
ants speak. I must learn to think as the 
peasants think." 

So the Count went out on the highway, and 
day after day he wandered along with the 
hungry pilgrims and studied the human soul 
through the human tongue. Beneath the rags 
and dirt and physical suffering of the pilgrims 
his eagle eyes discerned a quiet contentment 
and sense of happiness that troubled him. 

" How is it," he would say to the Countess, 
as he returned at nightfall dusty and bronzed 
by the weather, " how is it that these people 
live without money and are happy ? I cannot 
understand it." 

As the weeks grew into months the lines 
on the novelist's forehead wore deeper and his 
eyes became sadder. 

" No, I can't understand it," he would say. 
" These peasants and pilgrims are happy, really 
happy. It is no delusion. They know what 

124 




Count Tolstoy 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

it is to live. And yet we, who have money and 
everything that education can give us, are with- 
out this peace." 

Then the avatar occurred. The soul of the 
romancist and poet died, and the soul of the 
reformer and prophet was born. 

"It is religion," he cried. "The Church, 
the blessed Church gives them peace. They 
care nothing for hunger and nakedness and 
homelessness when they feel the consolations 
of true faith. We alone are living without real 
religion. That is why we cannot understand 
the happiness of the pilgrims. We are wasting 
ourselves on empty luxuries." 

The Count began to go to church. For days 
at a time he would pray before the holy ikons. 
Sometimes prostrating himself face downward 
for hours on the cold pavement. By fasting, 
meditation, and appeal he sought heaven. He 
sternly trampled his grand artist nature under 
foot. 

At this time the reign of Alexander II. 
ended in a spray of blood, and his stolid son 
ascended the throne. The liberal epoch had 
closed. Tolstoy was present in the church -of 

125 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

the Kremlin when Alexander III. was crowned, 
and heard the multitude swear the oath of 
allegiance. Human eyes never looked upon 
a more brilliant spectacle than that which sur- 
rounded the new emperor, as, with uplifted 
hand and streaming eyes, he repeated the 
solemn coronation vows. Tolstoy returned to 
his Moscow residence in a profound fit of sad- 
ness. The Countess was unable to understand 
the cause of his new unrest, and he was too 
much absorbed in his own thoughts to offer 
any explanation. A great light was dawning 
in his soul. Finally the Count opened his 
Bible, and turning to the Sermon on the Mount 
he came to this passage : — 

" But I say unto you, swear not at all ; 
neither by Heaven, for it is God's throne ; 
nor by the earth, for it is His footstool ; neither 
by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the great 
King. Neither shalt thou swear by thy head, 
because thou canst not make one hair white 
or black. But let your communication be yea, 
yea ; nay, nay : for whatsoever is more than 
these cometh of evil." 

The oath in the great cathedral, the uplifted 

126 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

hands, the open Bible, the droning voice of the 
richly clad priest, the smoke of incense floating 
upward among the ancient banners, the gleam- 
ing malachite and gold — the whole scene was 
in his mind. The brilliant aristocrat of Rus- 
sian literature tripped over a verse in the New 
Testament and arose from the ground a peas- 
ant prophet, crying out, in a wilderness of 
formalism, that the Christianity of the nine- 
teenth century had rejected Christ. In an 
instant the Greek church for him had crumbled 
into dust. 

"The Church is a false teacher," he said to 
the Countess. " I have with my own eyes seen 
its priests administering an oath upon the very 
scriptures that forbid oaths. I will trust the 
Church no more. I must read the gospels for 
myself." 

A few lines further on Tolstoy read aloud : 
" But I say unto you that ye resist not evil ; but 
whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, 
turn to him the other also." 

That was a moment of soul tempest. The 
old familiar Bible words were enchanted. 

"Then what is the meaning of these hun- 

127 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

dreds of thousands of soldiers wearing the 
uniform of the Czar, blessed by the Church, 
night and morning, and trained to kill their 
fellow-men," he cried. " If it is wrong to re- 
sist evil, then it is wrong to arm men with 
deadly weapons and turn the world into a 
military camp. Swear not ! Resist not evil ! 
How cruelly the Church has blinded men to 
the real teachings of Christ. Away with it ! " 

Day after day Tolstoy studied the New 
Testament. As he read on, his conviction 
that the words of Christ were to be taken 
literally, grew firmer. He talked to the 
Countess as though he had discovered some 
new book, repeating to her again and again 
passages that seemed to conflict with the whole 
system of modern society. 

" All this ceremony and theological mystery 
is a mockery of true religion," he said. 
" Christianity is simply love ; not the love of 
one person, but the love of all persons, with- 
out distinction of age, sex, relationship, or 
nationality. Love is religion, and religion is 
love." 

Then began that sweeping, weird change 

128 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

in the Count's life. His splendid house in 
Moscow was shut up, and he went to make his 
home with the rough peasants of Yasnia 
Poliana. His country residence soon gave 
evidence of his purpose. The carpets disap- 
peared from the floors, the walls were stripped 
bare, and all objects of luxury were banished. 
The Count put on the coarse dress of the 
common moujik, and buckled a leather belt 
around his waist. He ploughed the fields with 
his own hands. 

" I have no right to ask other men to work 
with their muscles and avoid manual toil my- 
self," he said simply. The village shoemaker 
became the Count's chum, and the novelist soon 
began to make shoes in a little workshop of 
his own. He fraternized with the peasants, and 
sent his daughters among them to brighten 
their lives. Work and love became his religion. 

Much of this I heard while I sat with the 
Countess Tolstoy and her daughters and con- 
sumed my black bread and coffee. Then I 
went down into the little dingy room where 
the Count worked as a shoemaker. Tolstoy 
had just come in from a long walk in the snow, 

129 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

and was brushing the wet drops from his beard 
and blouse. I never saw a more earnest coun- 
tenance than that which he turned to me as he 
curled one leg up under him and clasped his 
muscular hands over his knee. It was all so 
simple and real — a man who had struggled out 
of conventionality, back into naturalness. A 
spectacled, professorial disciple of the Count, 
dressed in peasant garb, and belted at the waist, 
sat on a shoe bench and reverently watched 
his leader. 

" The story of the * Kreutzer Sonata ' is sim- 
ply a protest against animality and an appeal 
for the Christianity of Christ," said the Count, 
searching me with his keen, candid eyes. 

" But surely," I said, " you dare not hold up 
that awful picture as a portrait of the average 
men and women of to-day ? " 

Tolstoy's face was alive with eagerness. 

" Why not ? " he said, as he knotted and 
unknotted his big fingers. " Why not ? Is it 
not life ? Is it not the truth ? " 

" No," I answered. " I cannot say that it 
is. There is more pure, noble, spiritual love 
in marriage than you give humanity credit for. 

130 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

You judge the many by the few. You frighten 
men and women, drawn together by love, into 
the belief that there must be something base 
and loathsome in it." 

" Bah ! That is how we talk to ourselves," 
said the Count. "And the most terrible fea- 
ture of the whole business is that we go on 
practising this half-conscious self-deceit. We 
cater to our base passions, and try to persuade 
ourselves that we have done some high, disin- 
terested deed. Why not be honest, and look 
at the ugly facts ? We approach marriage 
with preparations that give the lie to our 
hypocritical pretensions of purity." 

" That is a condemnation that needs evi- 
dence to support it, Count," I said; "and I 
think you will find it hard to justify in your 
own mind, when you look back upon your 
own married life, the conclusion that the 
whole plan of nature is wrong, and that men 
and women who unite with no consciousness 
of impure motives may not safely trust the 
promptings that are within them." 

Tolstoy unbuckled his belt, and clasped his 
hands behind his head. 

131 



ON THE GREAT HTGHWAY 

"There you fall into the mistake of those 
who will not see the truth, because they dread 
the result of a sincere self-judgment," he said, 
and his spectacled disciple nodded his head 
vigorously. " A man or woman has two 
natures — the animal and the spiritual. If a 
man deceives himself into believing that a 
purely physical passion is an attribute of his 
higher nature, of course he will go on indulg- 
ing it and increasing it at the expense of his 
spiritual growth. That is why I protest against 
the common idea of married love. It is too 
much associated with personal gratification, 
too narrow and selfish, and too much directed 
to brute pleasure. It is not wrong to eat, 
but it is bestial to make eating an absorbing 
object of thought. A man should eat to sat- 
isfy hunger, but if he allows his mind to run 
on his food, he will become a glutton and 
beast at the cost of his soul. Eating is 
neither to be praised nor condemned. It is 
nature." 

" And you mean to say, Count, that it is the 
result of your observation that brute passion 
is commonly mistaken for love in marriage ? " 

132 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

" I do. It is the principal source of marital 
unhappiness — the awakening, the disillusion- 
ment. We are all hypocrites to ourselves." 

"But I, too, have seen much of the world," 
I insisted, " and I deny the facts on which 
your argument is based. What would you 
say if I told you that I myself was in love, 
without any carnal consciousness ? " 

" I would say that you were arguing against 
yourself to hide the ugly truth. I would say 
that at the bottom crouched the animal." 

" But if the animal is at the bottom, and not 
at the top, in what does pure affection suffer ? " 

" Let me explain," said the Count, standing 
up. " If you take a rope tied to the top of 
a maypole in your hand, and make it your 
object merely to go around the pole, the rope 
will not rise. The rope is your nature. If 
you make the animal passions a centre for 
your life, your nature will become baser and 
baser. Turn your back on the brute, and 
strain in the opposite direction, and the rope 
will rise, all that is fine and imperishable in 
you will be lifted up — real love, the love 
that knows no selfish cravings." 

133 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

"Then you would counsel me never to 
marry ? " 

" No ; I never would give you such advice. 
If you are sure that you really love a woman, 
and that you love her purely, marry her. Try 
to live with her as you would live with your sis- 
ter. Do not be afraid that the human race will 
die out. Children will be born of such a mar- 
riage, but the love on which it is founded will 
exist independent of the body — a real love that 
no change can affect, and from which there will 
be no rude awakening." 

As Tolstoy ceased speaking, I repeated to 
him Tennyson's argument in " The Princess" : — 

" For woman is not undevelopt man, 

But diverse ; could we make her as the man 
Sweet love were slain ; his dearest bond is this, 

Not like to like, but like in difference. 
Yet in the long years liker must they grow ; 

The man be more of woman, she of man. 
He gain in sweetness and in moral height, 

Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world ; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care, 

Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind, 
Till at the last she set herself to man 

Like perfect music unto noble words ; 
And so these twain, upon the skirts of time, 

134 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Sit side by side, full sumrrfd in all their powers, 
Dispensing harvest, sowing the to-be, 

Self reverent each and reverencing each, 
Distinct in individualities, 

But like each other ev'n as those who love. 
Then comes the statelier Eden back to men ; 

Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and 
calm, 
Then springs the crowning race of humankind." 

"Yes," said the Count, when I had ended, 
" that is a good picture ; but Tennyson was a 
rhymster. I cannot endure that sort of a poet. 
When a man has found a word that expresses 
his thought accurately, and changes that word 
for the sake of a rhyme, he is a trifler. It is 
true, though, that a man and a woman joined in 
pure love make the perfect being." 

" In your indictment of the motives that lead 
to marriage in these days," I said, "you have 
not counted greatly on the craving for children. 
Is not the maternal and paternal feeling a desire 
for a sort of immortality — a longing to renew 
one's self beyond the grave, to live again in 
one's children, with all the errors corrected ? 
Is not this united aspiration of the body and 
soul pure beyond reproach ? " 

135 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

The Count paced the floor of the shoemaker's 
room, swinging his long arms as he talked. 

" It is nature," he said. " It is like hunger 
— neither good nor bad." 

" But is it not spiritual ? Is not the love of 
children for dolls the first faint awakening of 
the soul to this idea ? " 

" No. In the first place it does not exist in 
boys, although it is undeniably true that the 
desire for children is often strong in the minds 
of pure girls. As I have said, it is simply 
nature, like the desire for sleep or food." 

"You speak, Count, of unselfishness as the 
distinguishing mark of pure love. Is not mar- 
riage unselfish ? Is it not actually the begin- 
ning of a life in which each lives for the other, 
in which each surrenders personal ideas for the 
sake of the other ? " 

Tolstoy laughed harshly, and laid his great 
hand on my shoulder. 

" How can you ask that ? " he said. "Mar- 
riage is the worst kind of selfishness, for it is 
double. There is no egotism like family ego- 
tism. In the selfishness of their life the hus- 
band and wife forget the love they owe to the 

136 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAT 

rest of the world. Real love is simply the 
cohesive force of the spirit which draws the 
whole race together. That cohesive force I 
call God. God is simply love. That is what 
Christ tried to tell the world, but the churches 
have put another message in his mouth. 

"Yes, yes, I know they say I have declared 
that marriage is a failure. That is nonsense. 
It is a failure when husband and wife fail to 
look upon mere passion as selfishness, and as 
the enemy of spiritual growth. From the 
worldly standpoint marriage ought to be a 
great success. Married life is the most eco- 
nomical life. A man stays at home instead of 
rioting abroad. I know that before I was mar- 
ried I was always in need of money, no matter 
how much my income was. In the very first 
month of my married life I found that I had 
more money than I really needed." 

"Count Tolstoy," I said, "how do you define 
the soul as separate from the body during life ? 
There are faculties of the higher nature that 
can vanish. The doctors will explain it by 
telling you that a certain part of the brain 
is diseased. When the skull is opened after 

137 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

death they can show you the destroyed 
tissue." 

" Lies ! lies ! lies ! " said Tolstoy, fiercely. I 
had struck him in a tender part. " The belief 
in doctors has reached the point of superstition. 
It is the fetich of the century. It used to be 
miraculous images ; now it is doctors. Who 
verifies their statements? No one. People pre- 
tend to look at the evidence, but they don't." 

" But if I knock you into unconsciousness, 
what becomes of the soul without the body ?" 

" You might just as well ask me where my 
spirit is when my body is asleep. The soul is 
simply consciousness and love. It is personal- 
ity, not individuality. Identity may perish, but 
personality is indestructible. Consciousness of 
my being and love for my fellow-man are the 
substance; the body is only the shadow. If 
there is anything missing in the shadow, it 
must also be missing in the substance. The 
soul is related to the body in this thing only. 
If a man be paralyzed from head to foot and 
his consciousness remains, he is alive. If he 
can wink, he may communicate with others. 
If he be a king, and a man is brought before 

138 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

him for judgment, he can, with a movement of 
his eyelid, say whether life or death shall be 
the result. The soul is there complete, even 
though the body may be all but dead." 

" And you think that the Christian world has 
rejected Christ? " 

"The real Christ — yes. But men are grow- 
ing better, and the Christian idea of equality 
will in the end control." 

" But there are some of Christ's teachings, 
which, if taken literally, can hardly be realized 
in our present social condition. Christ would 
have you set an unrepentant fallen woman at 
the table beside your wife and daughters." 

"Why not?" said the Count. "Such a 
woman is the same in my eyes as my wife or 
daughters. She is simply unfortunate." 

" You would not seat her at your table ? " 

" I certainly would." 

"What right have you to expose innocence 
and purity to the touch of vice ? What right 
have you to let your own flesh and blood run 
the risk of corruption ? " 

I " Modern Christians believe that human na- 
ture is evil," said the Count, " but the Chinese 

139 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

believe that human nature is good. In this I 
am Chinese. When good and evil are brought 
together on equal ground, the good must prevail. 
That is a law of the universe.". 

A moment later the giant had his arm around 
the neck of his golden-haired little son who had 
stolen into the room. And philosophy was 
ended for that day. 



140 



CHAPTER VII 

Tolstoy and his People 

I HARDLY know how it came about, but 
early the next day I found myself flounder- 
ing along through the snow in moujik's 
boots with Tolstoy's eldest daughter. After a 
few minute's struggle through the whistling 
white storm we were in the actual village of 
Yasnia Poliana, a double row of straw-thatched 
huts on a dreary plain. The young Countess 
stepped around the monstrous drifts of snow 
with the grace and agility of a deer. Every 
peasant uncovered before her, and muttered a 
blessing. 

We entered a hut, and a low chorus of wel- 
come greeted us. We were in the presence of 
that Russia for whose sake Tolstoy had aban- 
doned rank and wealth. A heavy-faced, hairy 
man — a deaf mute, who had once been a serf 

141 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

— sat at a table eating black bread. Two half- 
naked, rosy children sprawled playfully beside 
his plate. The black eyes of the peasant glis- 
tened with pleasure, and the lines in his face 
softened when he saw Tolstoy's daughter. His 
wife and daughter were weaving clothes for 
themselves. They stood up and curtsied. 

Medicine for the baby. The little one swal- 
lowed it greedily. The pet lamb was brought out 
to bleat at the Countess's feet and lick her white 
hand. The sick sheep were in the bedroom. 

We sat down in the dim hut and listened to 
the family joys and woes. The sheep were not 
breeding well, and the outlook was hard. Would 
the Countess come and look at the horse they 
had bought for thirty-five roubles, and give her 
opinion ? We went into the stockade behind 
the hut, and the Countess examined the horse's 
teeth and feet. Ideas were exchanged, and 
advice given. 

Then we trudged through the bitter storm to 
the big school hut. It was crowded with tousle- 
headed boys and girls chanting the Russian 
alphabet in every key, while a swarthy young 
man, plainly embarrassed by our presence, tried 

142 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

to awe the giggling scholars into silence by 
haughtily " eyeing them over." The little Count- 
ess had once been their teacher, and no one 
could frighten them in her presence ; and she 
went from one to the other, examining their 
attempts at writing, patting their heads and 
commending good work. This school was sup- 
ported by Count Tolstoy, and his two daughters 
were the teachers until the Russian authorities 
refused to permit it any longer, lest the Count- 
esses might put liberal ideas into the children's 
minds. 

As we walked back through the desolate 
street, we were invited into another hut. A 
blind, white-haired woman and her two fat but 
pretty daughters sat at their spinning wheels, in 
the rude glory of embroidered peasant costumes. 
A letter from a relative had arrived. Would 
the Countess read it to them ? Of course she 
would. The fair young girl, with the snow still 
sparkling on her skirt and boots, seated herself 
in the midst of them, and began to read the 
coarse scrawlings, nodding now at one and now 
at another, as references were made to different 
members of the family. 

143 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

It was all so simple, so genuine. She sat 
there like a peasant among peasants, sharing 
the sorrows and perplexities and humors of their 
lives. 

I had seen the Russia of Tolstoy. 

And when we went back to the house, the 
Count took me with him for a long walk. The 
storm had died away, and the snowflakes drifted 
lightly through the air. A distant tinkle of 
sleighbells sounded over the frozen stretches. 

When Tolstoy goes out for his daily walk he 
dresses like any simple peasant, and I could 
hardly realize that the rough Colossus striding 
along so swiftly beside me in the deep snow was 
the high priest of Russian letters. 

"You newspaper writers are an irreverent 
tribe," he said. 

The statement being true, I made no reply. 
Presently the Count forgot the subject. 

" You have a Colonel Ingersoll in America," 
he said, as we descended through a little copse 
of birch trees, "a loose talker who has said 
some foolish words. He argues that Christ's 
Sermon on the Mount is not practical when 
applied to our present industrialism. I am 

144 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

strongly tempted to write a book on this man's 
shallow teachings. He is an ignoramus. He 
talks as if industrialism were a law instead of 
a product of human activity which can be 
changed. The truth is, that the whole system 
of compulsion is wrong. Every enemy of 
human liberty relies upon it. No man should 
be compelled to do anything against his will. 
In my new work I intend to quote Thomas 
Jefferson's declaration that the least govern- 
ment is the best government. He might have 
gone a step forward, and said that no govern- 
ment at all is better still." 

"That suggests socialism." 

" I know it does." 

" You will find Thomas Jefferson a poor wit- 
ness for a socialistic argument." 

" And you don't believe in socialism ? " asked 
the Count. 

" No. The American idea is to throw as 
much responsibility as possible on the indi- 
vidual and so develop individual character 
instead of merging individuality into the mass 
of society. Americans as a whole believe that 
when you try to level man you level downward, 

145 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

not upward. But Americans also hold that 
society must wield certain enumerated powers 
of government, in order to restrain the ruthless 
and the lawless." 

" Lawless ? Why should there be any 
laws ? " 

" Because without them contracts could not 
be enforced nor individual rights guarded." 

" And why should contracts be enforced ? 
When a man does not wish to do a thing, why 
should he be forced to do it ? " 

"Otherwise great human enterprises could 
not be prosecuted," I answered. 

" But why should these great enterprises be 
carried on by force ? " 

" Because — even looking at things from your 
own standpoint — railways, and bridges, and 
ships, and telegraphs, bring men closer together, 
and hasten the day when the whole world will 
be simply one big family." 

The Count strode through the snow in 
silence. 

" There is something in that. Anything that 
brings us men's thoughts is good." 

" Without the printing press I could not have 

146 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

known your teachings in New York, six thou- 
sand miles away." 

" True ; but mankind has lost the true path, 
and it would be better to go backward and find 
the right way of life — the way of love — than 
to build bridges. Without human slavery the 
pyramids of Egypt could not have been built. 
What of it ? We can do without the pyramids, 
but we cannot do without human liberty. I saw 
a terrible thing in the city of Toula. I went 
there to look after the son of my shoemaker 
friend who is an apprentice, and I found that 
he was working from six o'clock every morning 
until twelve o'clock every night. Shoes are 
useful, but it is better to go barefooted than to 
spoil boys. (If we can have the great enter- 
prises you speak of without violating the law 
of love, let them be continued, otherwise let 
them stop. It is better to live as the peasants 
live here and follow in the footsteps of Christ, 
than to build up vast systems of material wealth 
at the expense of the spiritual life."? 

" Did you ever hear of the Irish soldier who 
insisted that the only man in the regiment who 
was in step was himself ? " I said. 

147 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

The tall Count was wading through a danger- 
ous part of the road. He stopped and raised 
his hand. 

" That is not my idea at all," he said. "What 
I object to is the way in which men argue to 
themselves to prove that their selfish and im- 
moral lives are based upon the teachings of 
Christ. The Master is not to be understood by 
any particular passage of His teachings. It is 
the spirit of His utterances as a whole that con- 
demns our civilization. Christ would be an out- 
cast among the Christians of the nineteenth 
century." 

As we pressed forward into the high road, 
a splendid sleigh dashed past us, and a distin- 
guished-looking man clad in rich sables, a 
jewelled broach flashing in his scarf, lifted his 
fur cap and greeted Tolstoy with a marked air 
of deference. 

" God bless you, brother," said the Count, 
simply. 

Presently two trembling old men, in weather- 
stained sheepskin coats, and dirty felt boots, 
came creeping along the road, arm in arm. 
They were pilgrims on their way to the shrines 

148 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

of holy Moscow, weary and wretched. They 
stopped a few feet before us and, crossing them- 
selves, uncovered and saluted the Count as a 
brother peasant. 

" God bless you, brothers," said Tolstoy, bar- 
ing his head. Then he took them by the hand, 
and led them back to the house, while I followed 
slowly, contrasting in my mind the great men I 
had met in the capitals of the world with this 
mighty spirit that could reach out and lift sor- 
rowful, discouraged humanity — contrasting the 
Christianity of this barren, storm-swept Russian 
highway with the boulevards of Paris, with 
Piccadilly and with Broadway. 

My wanderings have brought me to many 
scenes on the world's great highway, but I have 
never looked upon a more profoundly beautiful 
sight than that homeward walk. 

We sat down to a rude dinner of vegetables 
spread over a long table resting on unpainted 
wooden trestles. It was a large room, bare of 
pictures or carpets. A piano was the only sug- 
gestion of luxury. The hungry pilgrims sat 
between Tolstoy's daughters. A slice of 
meat was placed before me. The Count 

149 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

referred to it as " that corpse," and I pushed it 
away. 

" And so you don't eat meat ? " 

"No," said the Count; "there is no reason 
why we should kill innocent animals when 
we can live just as well on vegetables. It is 
needless cruelty." 

" But you chop down trees," I suggested. 
" A tree has life. It breathes through its 
leaves, drinks through its roots, has sap-blood 
flowing in its veins and a bark skin. We know 
by the ivy and the sensitive plant that vege- 
tables can even think. How do you know that 
you do not inflict the most terrible pain when 
you cleave a tree with your axe ? " 

The Count sighed and turned his great face 
away. 

"It may be so," he said; "but I know that 
a sheep is less sensitive than a man, a flea less 
sensitive than a sheep, and a tree less sensitive 
than a flea. I must grade my actions propor- 
tionately. It is necessary to fell a tree; it is 
unnecessary to kill a sheep." 

When the dinner was cleared away and the 
lamps were lit in the room where many a pilgrim 

150 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

has eaten and praised God, we gathered at a 
round table, where Tolstoy's wife and daughters 
knitted warm wraps for the peasants, and his 
three-year-old son danced a Russian dance 
when his father grimly refused to play " Puss 
in the corner." On one side of the table was 
the Countess Tolstoy, stately and beautiful, and 
on the other side sat the Count, his powerful 
features standing out in the dim light like 
bronze. Outside, the storm lashed the tops of 
the trees, and drifted the snow against the huts 
of the peasants. A broken-legged dog whined 
on the staircase. 

It was then that I heard from the Countess 
of her plan for an audience with Alexander III. 
She hoped to soften the rigor of the brutal cen- 
sorship that had turned her husband away from 
his art. I have since learned that her appeal 
to the Emperor was in vain. She begged him 
to relax the severity of the censors who had 
suppressed all that was splendid or vital in her 
husband's writings, in their blind effort to crush 
out liberalism. The Countess reminded her 
sovereign that Catherine the Great had made 
her reign glorious in history by drawing 

151 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAT 

around her the great writers of her time, 
instead of alienating them from the court. 
Alexander listened patiently to the eloquent 
woman who had come from dreary Yasnia Poli- 
ana, strong in the righteousness of her cause, 
and believing that her entreaty would meet 
with a broad and generous response. She 
forgot that the spirit of progress was buried 
in the grave of Alexander II., and that the 
ascendency of Pobiedonostseff, the narrow- 
souled procurator-general of the Holy Synod, 
over the mind of his successor had destroyed 
all hope of reform. The Emperor heard her 
arguments as he heard the honest voice of 
Loris Melikoff pleading for a constitutional 
government, and he set his face against tolera- 
tion. It is not too much to say that the failure 
of Tolstoy to write the last great novel which 
he planned was due to the inflexible opposition 
of the Czar. 

Those who blame Tolstoy for his too literal 
Christianity, should see his surroundings, and 
then they may comprehend the stages by 
which he arrived at his present point of view. 
He is honest and sane. Even in the harshest 

152 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

periods of his austere life he has seemed to be 
happy. No one familiar with the facts can 
doubt that, however erratic his course has been, 
he has aroused in the thinking people of Russia 
a partial sense of the social, industrial, and polit- 
ical iniquities against which his peasant life has 
been a standing protest. I have told the story 
of his union with and separation from the Greek 
church, but I have not told all. There are 
other details which do not belong to the public, 
but which would help to explain the life of this 
extraordinary man. 

While we talked together that night Tolstoy 
told me that he could never give up his idea 
that physical labor was a duty imposed upon 
every man, and that he would continue until 
his dying day to plough in the field, and to 
make shoes, no matter what society might say. 
He illustrated his labor creed by quoting the 
words of Timothy Michailovitch Bondareff, the 
Russian peasant whose interdicted book was 
made known to the world by the Count : — 

" You may give all the treasures in the world 
to purchase a child, but it will not then be your 
own. It never has been yours and never can 

153 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

be. It belongs only to its own mother. It is 
the same with the question of food. A man 
may neglect the duty of laboring for bread ; 
he may buy a loaf with money. But that loaf 
still belongs to the person whose labor earned 
it. For, even as a woman cannot purchase 
motherhood with money, nor in any other way, 
so a man ought, by the work of his own hands, 
to procure the necessary food for his own sub- 
sistence and that of his wife and children. He 
cannot elude the obligation by any means, what- 
ever may be his rank or merit." 

Here, then, was the secret of Tolstoy's life — 
love and labor. He worked four hours every 
day with his pen, but he also did his stint of 
manual toil. He went out among the down- 
trodden peasants, not only to preach the holi- 
ness of labor, but to share with them the satis- 
faction and dignity of producing wealth with 
his own hands. Imagine Shakespeare, or 
Goethe, or Dante, or Hugo, or Thackeray 
leading such a crusade in their declining 
years ! 

Through the mist of years that has gathered 
since I went to Yasnia Poliana I can look back 

154 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

and see Tolstoy reading Bondareff's will as 
though it were his own : — 

" I will order my son not to bury me in the 
cemetery, but in the ground, which, cultivated 
by my arms, has furnished our daily bread. I 
will pray him not to fill my grave with clay or 
sand, but with fertile earth, and to leave no 
mound or anything to indicate the place of my 
burial. I will direct him to continue every year 
to sow the place with good wheat. Later this 
land may belong to some other cultivator, and 
in this manner they will gather the bread of 
life from my grave to the end of the world. 
Men will speak of my obsequies from century 
to century, and many laborers will follow my 
example. Perhaps some among you, O ye 
nobles and rich men, will also be interred in 
the earth where men sow their grain ! " 

The country round about Yasnia Poliana is 
hard and desolate. There is little to remind the 
peasants of the outside world except the visita- 
tions of the Imperial Government in search of 
recruits for the army. They live on from gen- 
eration to generation, sequestered from the fever- 
ish influences of modern civilization. Few of 

155 



ON THE GREAT HIGHJVAT 

them understand Tolstoy. They know that he 
is a great author, and they have heard that the 
Emperor ordered him to live in the country be- 
cause he was a zealous champion of the common 
people and reviled the aristocracy. But I can- 
not believe that they suspect the tenderness and 
pity with which he regards them, And yet the 
pilgrims who are fed at his table and sheltered 
beneath his roof carry to all parts of the empire 
tales of Tolstoy's goodness, and the village 
shoemaker, who has worked side by side with 
him, declares that, although the Count makes 
poor shoes, he has made the young men proud 
to be laborers. 



Since the preceding lines were written, the 
hierarchy of the Greek church has formally ex- 
communicated Count Tolstoy. Orthodox Chris- 
tianity has cursed and rejected the one modern 
man who has tried to follow literally in the foot- 
steps of Christ. And yet, when the intolerant 
bigots who struck his name from the Christian 
rolls are mouldering in forgotten graves, the 
influence of Lyoff Tolstoy's example and teach- 
ings will be a living influence in the world. 

i 5 6 



CHAPTER VIII 
" The Butcher'' 

WHILE the Cuban Republic was still 
wandering in the tall grass, and 
God was leading Spain to destruc- 
tion over the well-worn path of tyranny, I had 
my first view of Captain-general Weyler in his 
Havana palace. 

From the windows of the room in which we 
sat we could see the little church that covered 
the tomb of Columbus, whose ashes were soon 
to be carried back, under a furled and van- 
quished flag, to the land that sent him forth, 
four centuries before, with sword and cross, 
to carry the Spanish idea of Christianity into 
a new hemisphere. 

It was a time of terror. The streets of 
Havana swarmed with spies, the dungeons of 
Morro Castle and the mighty Cabanas were 
crowded with Cuban patriots ; and the trampled 
grass between the colossal walls of the vener- 

157 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

able fortress was stained with the blood of 
insurgents murdered in public with all the 
outward surroundings of law. From one end 
of Cuba to the other came stories of massacre 
and pitiless persecution. 

Yet the armies of Gomez, Garcia, and 
Maceo still held the field, the Cuban junta in 
Havana, under the very nose of the terrible 
Captain-general, continued to hold its secret 
sessions, and the American newspaper corre- 
spondents, treading the secret precincts of 
insurgent activity, in the shadow of the royal 
palace, saw to it that the lamp of American 
sympathy was kept trimmed and burning 
brightly. 

How delicately balanced are the decisive 
events of history sometimes ! There are days 
when the destiny of a nation may be influenced 
by the slightest breath. 

At such a time I saw Captain-general Weyler, 
the most sinister figure of the nineteenth cen- 
tury. He was a short, broad-shouldered man, 
dressed in a general's uniform, with a blood-red 
sash wound around his waist. His head was 
too large for his body. The forehead was 

158 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

narrow, the nose and jaws prominent and 
bony ; the chin heavy and projecting. The 
sharp lower teeth were thrust out beyond the 
upper rows, giving the mouth a singular ex- 
pression of brutal determination. The eyes 
were gray and cold. The voice was harsh 
and guttural — a trace of his Austrian ances- 
try — and he jerked his words out in the 
curt manner of a man accustomed to absolute 
authority. It was a smileless, cruel face, with 
just a suggestion of treachery in the crows' 
feet about the eyes ; otherwise bold and 
masterful. 

This was Don Valeriano Weyler, Marquis of 
Tenerife, the Spanish Captain-general, who 
had just ordered his army practically to exter- 
minate the Cuban nation, the fierce disciple 
of Cortez and Alva, at the mention of whose 
name the women and children of unhappy 
Cuba shuddered ; the incarnation of the surviv- 
ing spirit of mediaeval Europe, desperately 
struggling to retain a foothold in the western 
world. He was the guardian of the last rem- 
nant of Spanish authority in the hemisphere 
once controlled by Spain ; a worthy instrument 

159 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

to close the most unspeakable period of colonial 
government. 

" You have set your hand to a difficult task," 
I ventured. 

" We shall crush the insurgents like that," 
and the Captain-general closed his hand as 
though he were strangling something. 

" It is hard to extinguish the republican spirit 
on this side of the Atlantic," I said. " It feeds 
on the air." 

" I have two hundred thousand Spanish sol- 
diers and fifty generals," said Weyler. " If it 
were not for the encouragement of the Ameri- 
cans, the Cubans would lie down like whipped 
dogs." 

It was the voice of the Middle Ages that 
spoke. 

" Two hundred thousand troops against a few 
half-starved men?" I said. " Isn't it strange 
that the struggle continues ? " 

" No ! " — the jaws snapped viciously — " the 
Cubans are fighting us openly ; the Americans 
are fighting us secretly." 

" How do you account for it ? " 

The Captain-general stared at me and moved 

1 60 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

his jaws with an unpleasant chewing motion. 
Then he rose from his chair and paced the 
room. It is hard to convey an idea of the 
expression in his sullen eyes. 

"The American newspapers are responsible," 
he cried with a sudden passion. " They poison 
everything with falsehood. They should be 
suppressed." 

" But the American newspapers did not stir 
up Mexico and Peru and the other Spanish- 
American colonies to rebellion," I answered. 
" The American newspapers were not in exist- 
ence when the Netherlands fought against the 
Spanish crown for independence. It is the 
custom in these times to lay the blame for 
everything on the newspapers. The news- 
papers did not organize or arm the Cuban 
insurgents. Why are the Cubans fighting at 
all ? " 

"Because they are lawless; because they 
hate authority." 

" Who made them lawless ? Spain has con- 
trolled this island for four hundred years." 

Weyler turned in a fury and struck the table 
with his fist. 

161 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

"Men like you," he snarled, "who excite 
rebellion everywhere — meddlesome scribblers." 

"Your Excellency natters me." 

"Take care," he said, with a threatening 
frown. " I have a long arm. The penalty for 
trafficking with the insurgents is death ; do you 
understand that — death ! " 

His teeth shone between his lips ; his eyes 
were the eyes of an angry wolf. 

" I understand ; but my death would not help 
the Spanish cause. There are a hundred other 
writers in New York eager to take my place." 

At that moment the door opened. A small, 
pale man entered the room and laid some 
papers on Weyler's desk. The intruder gave 
me a sidewise glance. I recognized him. He 
was a spy of the Cuban insurgents, attached 
to the palace ; a shrewd, soft-footed, silent man. 
He withdrew as quietly as he came, and glanc- 
ing slyly over his shoulder at the Captain- 
general, whose back was turned, he raised 
his eyebrows and smiled. 

" Remember," said Weyler, as I left him, 
" you will be watched in all that you do here. 
My eyes will be on you night and day." 

162 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

That night I was surprised by the sudden 
appearance of a New York correspondent who 
had incurred the death penalty by visiting the 
insurgent army. It was known that Weyler's 
spies were searching for him in every part of 
the island. He walked into the Hotel Ingla- 
terra, and sat down in the cafe among the 
chattering Spanish officers with a jaunty in- 
souciance that well became his daring char- 
acter. 

" Nice evening," he remarked coolly, nodding 
to me across the table. 

" Great God," I whispered, "don't you 
know — " 

"Yes, I know," he answered quickly. 
" They're looking for me, but this is the last 
place they will expect to find me. Don't whis- 
per ; it will excite suspicion. I've dropped my 
identity for the present. I'm Mr. Brown — 
Mr. Brown, of New York — travelling about in 
search of a chance to make good invest- 
ments." 

"How did you get here ? " 

" Came down from Key West on the regular 
steamer." 

163 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" But I thought you were hiding somewhere 
in Cuba." 

" Not at all. I escaped from the island, but 
I couldn't keep away. To-morrow I'll start 
through the tall grass for the insurgent army, 
and I'll stay with it till the fight is won or the 
Cuban Republic is wiped out. Poor old 
Weyler ! How mad he'll be when he reads 
my next despatches from Maceo's head- 
quarters." 

It is doubtful whether the Captain-general 
ever realized the skill and coolness of some of 
the men who fought the battles of the Cuban 
Republic in the American press. They 
swarmed in his capital day and night ; they 
wandered about, picking up rare old fans in the 
shops, gossiping with the officers in the restau- 
rants, listening to the Spanish military concerts 
in the broad Prado or the plaza, admiring the 
Cuban girls at the barred windows, and appar- 
ently leading lives of careless indolence ; but 
never for an hour did they relax their vigilance, 
and when a correspondent disappeared myste- 
riously for an hour or two, he was sure to be 
shut up somewhere with an insurgent agent, 

164 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

listening to the latest news of the struggle for 
liberty. 

" The Spanish army then retreated," wrote 
one correspondent. 

" I can't pass that," growled the Spanish 
military censor. " I will not allow any one to 
cable such a statement. You must correct it." 

" Right," said the correspondent. " I made 
a mistake." 

Then he wrote, " The Spanish army ad- 
vanced gallantly rearward." 

"Good!" cried the Spaniard, whose knowl- 
edge of English was somewhat hazy. "That 
is the truth. Spanish soldiers never retreat." 

Thus the. game of life and death was played 
in old Havana ; and many a time the Spanish 
lion roared defiantly, unconscious of the fact 
that the despised correspondents had tied its 
tail in bowknots. 

Weyler was simply the agent of a political 
theory that discontent should be cured by stern 
repression rather than by remedial legislation. 
It is a policy as old as the human race. It has 
always been a failure, but it springs up in 
every age. He did his work honestly and 

165 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

frankly. Cubans who refused to recognize 
Spanish authority must be killed. There were 
plenty to take their places. 

I saw the Captain-general several times, and 
he was always the same stubborn tyrant. The 
newspapers were to blame for everything. 
They were the curse of civilized society. It 
would be better for the world if every editor 
and correspondent were shot. 

The time had come to put Weyler to the 
test. In Campo Florida, a village eight miles 
distant from Havana, forty or fifty unarmed, 
peaceable Cubans had been dragged from 
their homes, and without accusation or trial, 
butchered on the roadside by order of the 
local military commander. This awful deed 
was simply an incident in Weyler's great 
plan for the restoration of peace by the mur- 
der of all persons suspected of giving aid to 
the insurgents. In order to keep up appear- 
ances, the officer who directed the uniformed 
assassins made an official report announcing 
a battle at Campo Florida, with an enumera- 
tion of the enemy's dead. 

It was important to prove the responsibility 

1 66 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

of the Spanish crown for barbarities like 
these, and I made my way to Campo Florida 
at night. Guided by two patriotic Cubans, 
I found the place where the victims had been 
hurriedly buried. A few strokes of a spade 
uncovered the ghastly evidences of murder. 
The hands of the slain Cubans were tied 
behind their backs. The sight revealed by 
the flickering light of our lanterns would have 
moved the hardest heart. I made a vow in 
that moment that I would help to extinguish 
Spanish sovereignty in Cuba, if I had to shed 
my blood for it. That vow was kept. 

With a list of the murdered Cubans and all 
the circumstances of their death, I appeared 
once more before the Captain-general in his 
palace. The whole story was told. Weyler's 
dull eyes glittered dangerously. His lips 
grew white. 

"Well," he said, when I had finished, "what 
do you come to me for ? " 

" You have declared that the American 
newspapers were responsible for the Cuban 
rebellion." 

"Yes." 

167 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" Come with me and see the real cause of 
the war. I will show you men, supposed to 
have been killed in fair fight on the field, with 
their hands bound behind them. I will prove 
to you crimes against civilization committed 
by the Spanish army in the name of Spain." 

" Lies ! vile lies ! The Cuban agitators 
have deceived you ! " cried Weyler. 

"You have heard the simple truth. I have 
seen the victims with my own eyes." 

" And you dare — " 

"To tell the truth — yes. I dare not do 
anything else." 

" I will expel you from the island." 

" You may do that, but how will it help mat- 
ters ? I am a mere cog in a vast machine. 
I have come to you fairly and frankly with 
proofs of an almost incredible crime against 
humanity. If your only answer is a decree of 
exile, you will confess that the Spanish govern- 
ment is responsible." 

The rage of the Captain-general whitened 
his face. It would be hard to imagine a more 
malignant countenance. The veins in his 
forehead swelled ; his hands twitched. 

168 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" I will make an example of you," he roared. 

" You may threaten me, but the power I 
represent is beyond any government; it is 
elemental in America." 

" I will send you out of Cuba and you shall 
not return without the consent of the Spanish 
government." 

" You can force me to go, but I will return 
some day without permission from Spain. 
Good day, sir." 

" Good day." 

And that was my last sight of the most 
monstrous personality of modern times until 
I saw him slouching through the streets of 
Madrid a week before the United States 
unsheathed the sword for Cuba. Weyler kept 
his word and made me an exile from Cuba. 
But I returned to the island just in time to 
take a Spanish flag with my own hand, and to 
see the smoking hulks of Cervera's fleet along 
the Cuban shore. 



"Why did we allow Weyler to live?" re- 
peated the gray-haired Cuban leader. " Be- 
cause he was more useful to us alive than dead. 

169 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Assassination? No, no! the time has gone 
when assassination could help any cause in the 
world. It is a fool's argument. A dozen 
patriots offered to kill the Captain-general 
and die with him. We could have destroyed 
him at almost any moment. But we would not 
stain our cause with murder. He little thought, 
when he issued his bloody commands, that we 
were always at his very elbow, always within 
striking distance. If we had assassinated 
Weyler, we would have lost the sympathy of 
the American people and destroyed our only 
chance for liberty and independence. There 
is nothing equal to patience in a fight against 
oppression." 



It was a strange experience for a man 
exiled from Cuba as an enemy of Spain to 
stand before the Spanish Prime Minister in 
Madrid. Yet there I was. Don Canovas del 
Castillo was not only the actual head of the 
government, but the supreme political and 
moral leader of his people. His voice was the 
voice of the nation. It was he who seated the 

170 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

reigning dynasty on the throne, and his hand 
wrote the constitution of the monarchy. 

He looked like an old lion as he sat in his 
splendid audience room, under Velasquez's 
matchless portraits of Philip IV. and Louis 
XIV. in their childhood, his dark eyes flashing 
beneath his massive forehead and shaggy, white 
brows. No one could have looked upon that 
strong, venerable face and heard that hard, 
steely voice, without knowing that Spain was 
ready to meet her fate, whatever it might be, 
and that Spanish pride was as unyielding and 
unreasonable as in the days of Charles V., when 
his sceptre swayed Europe. 

" My government will not yield an inch to 
force or to threats of force," he said. " Spain 
will make no concession until the insurrection 
in Cuba has been brought under control, and 
until we can give, of our own free will, what 
we refuse to allow any one to take, either by 
armed insurrection or by treasonable intrigue 
with other nations. Independent Cuba would 
mean a government dominated by negroes ; not 
such negroes as are to be found in the United 
States, but African negroes, African in every 

171 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

sense. Independent Cuba would mean civil 
war between whites and blacks ; it would mean 
fifty years of anarchy ; it would mean the 
destruction of the island and its commerce. 
Such a republic would be a menace to the 
peace of the United States. It would be worse 
than Hayti, far worse. Spain cannot under- 
take to be guided in her domestic affairs by 
any other government, nor can she allow any 
foreign agitation to influence her in dealing 
with her rebellious colony. We seek peace, 
but we will not shrink from war in any matter 
touching our honor. If the United States 
forces war upon Spain, we are ready to defend 
ourselves, but we are determined that Spain 
shall be the nation attacked, and not herself 
the aggressor. Spain will defend herself at 
all hazards. The question of the comparative 
strength of nations will not enter into the 
matter at all. We are ready to meet whatever 
the future holds for us." 

That future, which the lionlike Premier chal- 
lenged so bravely, held death by assassination 
for him and a bloody defeat for his country. 

When the mobs of Madrid were shrieking 

172 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

defiance to the United States in the Puerto del 
Sol, and the wild bulls furnished by the last 
descendant of Columbus were fighting to raise 
money for a warship to be used against the 
new-world champions of Cuba, I went with a 
friend to see the Escurial, that monastery- 
fortress where Philip II. retired to nurse his 
gouty leg after God and England had destroyed 
the Armada. 

As we descended into the wonderful marble 
crypt which holds the dust of all the sovereigns 
of Spain, my companion uncovered and said: — 

" Dead glory riseth never." 



173 



CHAPTER IX 

Familiar Glimpses of Yellozv Journalism 

IT has been said by those calm students of 
human events who were untroubled by the 
cries of oppressed Cuba, that the war be- 
tween the United States and Spain was the 
work of the " yellow newspapers " — that form 
of American journalistic energy which is not 
content merely to print a daily record of history, 
but seeks to take part in events as an active 
and sometimes decisive agent. 

That was a saying of high reproach when 
the armed struggle began and when Continental 
Europe frowned upon the American cause. 
" Yellow journalism" was blood guilty. It had 
broken the peace of the world. Its editors 
were enemies of society and its correspondents 
ministers of passion and disorder. Its lying 
clamors had aroused the credulous mob, over- 
thrown the dignified policies of government, 
and dishonored international law. 

174 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

But when the results of that conflict justified 
the instrumentalities which produced it, when 
the world accepted the emancipation of Cuba 
from the bloody rule of Spain as a glorious step 
in the progress of mankind, — then the part 
played by the newspapers was forgotten, and 
" yellow journalism " was left to sing its own 
praises ; and its voice was long and loud and 
sometimes tiresome. 

Little politicians arose and, with their hands 
on their hearts, acknowledged that they had 
done the thing and were willing to have it 
known of men. Heroes of a three months' 
war, who had faced the perils of tinned beef, 
bared their brows for the laurels of a grateful 
nation. The party in power at Washington 
solemnly thanked God that it had had the 
wisdom and courage to strike a blow for human 
liberty. The government's press censors in 
Cuba and the Philippines were instructed to 
suppress the attempts of indignant "yellow 
journalism" to call attention to its own deeds. 

And yet no true history of the war which 
banished Spain from the western hemisphere 
and released the Philippine archipelago from 

175 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

her tyranny, can be written without an acknowl- 
edgment that whatever of justice and freedom 
and progress was accomplished by the Spanish- 
American war was due to the enterprise and 
tenacity of "yellow journalists," many of whom 
lie in unremembered graves. 

As one of the multitude who served in that 
crusade of "yellow journalism," and shared in 
the common calumny, I can bear witness to the 
martyrdom of men who suffered all but death 
— and some, even death itself — in those days 
of darkness. 

It may be that a desire to sell their news- 
papers influenced some of the " yellow editors," 
just as a desire to gain votes inspired some of 
the political orators. But that was not the 
chief motive ; for if ever any human agency 
was thrilled by the consciousness of its moral 
responsibility, it was " yellow journalism " in 
the never-to-be-forgotten months before the out- 
break of hostilities, when the masterful Spanish 
minister at Washington seemed to have the 
influence of every government in the world 
behind him in his effort to hide the truth and 
strangle the voice of humanity. 

176 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

How little they know of " yellow journalism" 
who denounce it ! How swift they are to con- 
demn its shrieking headlines, its exaggerated 
pictures, its coarse buffoonery, its intrusions 
upon private life, and its occasional inaccura- 
cies ! But how slow they are to see the stead- 
fast guardianship of public interests which it 
maintains ! How blind to its unf earing warfare 
against rascality, its detection and prosecution 
of crime, its costly searchings for knowledge 
throughout the earth, its exposures of humbug, 
its endless funds for the quick relief of distress ! 

Some time before the destruction of the bat- 
tleship Maine in the harbor of Havana, the New 
York Journal sent Frederic Remington, the dis- 
tinguished artist, to Cuba. He was instructed 
to remain there until the war began; for " yel- 
low journalism " was alert and had an eye for 
the future. 

Presently Mr. Remington sent this telegram 
from Havana : — 

"W. R. Hearst, New York Journal, N.Y. : 

" Everything is quiet. There is no trouble 
here. There will be no war. I wish to return. 

" Remington." 
177 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

This was the reply : — 
" Remington, Havana : 

"Please remain. You furnish the pictures, 
and I'll furnish the war. 

"W. R. Hearst." 

The proprietor of the Journal was as good 
as his word, and to-day the gilded arms of 
Spain, torn from the front of the palace in San- 
tiago de Cuba, hang in his office in Printing 
House Square, a lump of melted silver, taken 
from the smoking deck of the shattered Span- 
ish flagship, serves as his paper weight, and the 
bullet-pierced headquarters flag of the Eastern 
army of Cuba — gratefully presented to him in 
the field by General Garcia — adorns his wall. 

The incident which did more to arouse the 
sentimental opposition of the American people 
to Spain than anything which happened prior 
to the destruction of the Maine, was the rescue 
of the beautiful Evangelina Cisneros from a 
Havana prison by the JoicmaVs gallant corre- 
spondent, Karl Decker. There is nothing in fic- 
tion more romantic than this feat of " yellow 
journalism." And the events which led up to 
it are worth telling. 

i 7 8 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

One sultry day in August, 1897, the propri- 
etor of the Journal was lolling in his editorial 
chair. Public interest in Cuba was weak. The 
Spanish minister at Washington had drugged 
the country with cunningly compounded state- 
ments. The government was indifferent. The 
weather was too hot for serious agitation. 
Every experienced editor will tell you that it 
is hard to arouse the popular conscience in 
August. Perspiring man refuses to allow him- 
self to be worked into a moral rage. The pro- 
letariat of liberty was in a hole. The most 
tremendous headlines failed to stir the crowd. 

An attendant entered the room with a tele- 
gram, which Mr. Hearst read languidly : — 

" Havana. 

" Evangelina Cisneros, pretty girl of seventeen 
years, related to President of Cuban Republic, 
is to be imprisoned for twenty years on African 
coast, for having taken part in uprising Cuban 
political prisoners on Isle of Pines." 

He read it over a second time and was 
about to cast it on his desk — but no ! He 
stared at the little slip of paper and whistled 
softly. Then he slapped his knee and laughed. 

179 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" Sam ! " he cried. 

A tall, shaven, keen-eyed editor entered from 
the next room. 

" We've got Spain, now ! " exclaimed Mr. 
Hearst, displaying the message from Cuba. 
" Telegraph to our correspondent in Havana to 
wire every detail of this case. Get up a peti- 
tion to the Queen Regent of Spain for this girl's 
pardon. Enlist the women of America. Have 
them sign the petition. Wake up our corre- 
spondents all over the country. Have distin- 
guished women sign first. Cable the petitions 
and the names to the Queen Regent. Notify 
our minister in Madrid. We can make a na- 
tional issue of this case. It will do more to 
open the eyes of the country than a thousand 
editorials or political speeches. The Spanish 
minister can attack our correspondents, but 
we'll see if he can face the women of America 
when they take up the fight. That girl must be 
saved if we have to take her out of prison by 
force or send a steamer to meet the vessel that 
carries her away — but that would be piracy, 
wouldn't it?" 

Within an hour messages were flashing to 

180 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Cuba, England, France, Spain, and to every 
part of the United States. The petition to the 
Queen Regent was telegraphed to more than 
two hundred correspondents in various Ameri- 
can cities and towns. Each correspondent was 
instructed to hire a carriage and employ what- 
ever assistance he needed, get the signatures of 
prominent women of the place, and telegraph 
them to New York as quickly as possible. 
Within twenty-four hours the vast agencies of 
" yellow journalism " were at work in two hemi- 
spheres for the sake of the helpless girl pris- 
oner. Thousands of telegrams poured into the 
Journal office. Mrs. Jefferson Davis, the widow 
of the Confederate President, wrote this appeal, 
which the Journal promptly cabled to the 
summer home of the Queen Regent at San 
Sebastian : — 

"To Her Majesty, Maria Cristina, Queen 
Regent of Spain : — 

" Dear Madam : In common with many of 
my countrywomen I have been much moved by 
the accounts of the arrest and trial of Senorita 
Evangelina Cisneros. Of course, at this great 
distance, I am ignorant of the full particulars 

181 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

of her case. But I do know she is young, de- 
fenceless, and in sore straits. However, all the 
world is familiar with the shining deeds of the 
first lady of Spain, who has so splendidly illus- 
trated the virtues which exalt wife and mother, 
and who has added to these the wisdom of a 
statesman and the patience and fortitude of a 
saint. 

" To you I appeal to extend your powerful 
protection over this poor captive girl — a child 
almost in years — to save her from a fate 
worse than death. I am sure your kind heart 
does not prompt you to vengeance, even though 
the provocation has been great. I entreat you 
to give her to the women of America, to live 
among us in peace. 

"We will become sureties that her life in 
future will be one long thank-offering for your 
clemency. 

11 Do not, dear Madam, refuse this boon to us, 
and we will always pray for the prosperity of 
the young King, your son, and for that of his 
wise and self-abnegating mother. 

" Your admiring and respecting petitioner, 
"Varina Jefferson Davis." 

Then Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, author of the 
" Battle Hymn of the Republic," wrote this 

182 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

appeal to the Pope, which the Journal cabled to 

the Vatican : — 

"To His Holiness, Leo XIII. : 

"Most Holy Father: — To you, as the head 
of Catholic Christendom, we appeal for aid in 
behalf of Evangelina Cisneros, a young lady of 
Cuba, one of whose near relatives is concerned 
in the present war, in which she herself has 
taken no part. She has been arrested, tried by 
court martial, and is in danger of suffering a 
sentence more cruel than death — that of twenty 
years of exile and imprisonment in the Spanish 
penal colony of Ceuta, in Africa, where no 
woman has ever been sent, and where, besides 
enduring every hardship and indignity, she 
would have for her companions the lowest 
criminals and outcasts. 

"We implore you, Holy Father, to emulate 
the action of that Providence which interests 
itself in the fall of a sparrow. A single word 
from you will surely induce the Spanish govern- 
ment to abstain from this act of military ven- 
geance, which would greatly discredit it in the 
eyes of the civilized world. 

" We devoutly hope that your wisdom will see 
fit to utter this word, and to make not us alone, 
but humanity, your debtors. 

"Julia Ward Howe." 

183 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

The mother of President McKinley signed a 
petition to the Queen Regent The wife of 
Secretary of State Sherman gave her name to 
the appeal, and soon the most representative 
women of the nation joined the movement. 
Fifteen thousand names were cabled by the 
Journal to the palace of San Sebastian. The 
country began to ring with the story of Evange- 
lina Cisneros. Hundreds of public meetings 
were convened. The beautiful young prisoner 
became the protagonist of the Cuban struggle 
for liberty. Spain was denounced and the 
President was urged to lend his influence to the 
patriot cause of Cuba. The excitement grew 
day by day. It stirred up forces of sympathy 
that had lain dormant until then. The wily 
Spanish minister at Washington was in a trap. 
He did not dare to attack a movement sup- 
ported by the wives and daughters of the great 
leaders of every political party in the United 
States. 

How we worked and watched for poor Cuba 
in those days ! How the tired writers stuck 
to the fight in those hot, breathless nights ! 
And how the palace officials in Spain and the 

184 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Captain-general in Cuba cursed us for our 
pains ! 

Presently there came a message from Cuba. 
Karl Decker had carried out his instructions. 
"Yellow journalism" had broken the bars of 
the Spanish prison. The beautiful young pris- 
oner was safe on the ocean and would be in 
New York in a few days. 

Not only had the girl been lifted out of the 
prison window through the shattered iron bar- 
riers and carried from rooftop to rooftop in the 
night over a teetering ladder, but she had been 
secreted in Havana in spite of the frantic search 
of the Spanish authorities and, disguised as a 
boy, had been smuggled on board of a departing 
steamer under the very noses of the keenest 
detectives in Havana. 

" Now is the time to consolidate public sen- 
timent," said Mr. Hearst. " Organize a great 
open-air reception in Madison Square. Have 
the two best military bands. Secure orators, 
have a procession, arrange for plenty of fire- 
works and searchlights. Announce that Miss 
Cisneros and her rescuer will appear side by 
side and thank the people. Send men to all 

185 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

the political leaders in the city, and ask them 
to work up the excitement. We must have a 
hundred thousand people together that night. 
It must be a whale of a demonstration — some- 
thing that will make the President and Con- 
gress sit up and think." 

Who, of all the countless multitude that wit- 
nessed that thrilling scene in Madison Square, 
knew the processes by which " yellow journal- 
ism," starting with that little message from 
Havana, had set in motion mighty forces of 
sympathy, which increased day by day, until 
Congress met, and the conscience of the na- 
tion found its official voice. 

The time has not yet come when all the 
machinery employed by the American press in 
behalf of Cuba can be laid bare to the public. 
Great fortunes were spent in the effort to arouse 
the country to a realization of the real situation. 
Things which cannot even be referred to now 
were attempted. 

It was my fortune to interview Canovas del 
Castillo, the Prime Minister of Spain, a few 
months before the outbreak of the war. As I 
had been exiled from Cuba — whither I had 

1 86 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

gone as a special correspondent for the New 
York World — by Captain-general Weyler, the 
experience in Madrid was doubly interesting. 

" The newspapers in your country seem to 
be more powerful than the government," said 
the lion-headed Premier. 

" Not more powerful, your Excellency, but 
more in touch with the real sovereignty of 
the nation, the people. The government is 
elected only once in four years, while the news- 
papers have to appeal to their constituents 
every day in the year." 

If the war against Spain is justified in the 
eyes of history, then "yellow journalism" de- 
serves its place among the most useful instru- 
mentalities of civilization. It may be guilty of 
giving the world a lop-sided view of events by 
exaggerating the importance of a few things 
and ignoring others, it may offend the eye by 
typographical violence, it may sometimes pro- 
claim its own deeds too loudly ; but it has 
never deserted the cause of the poor and the 
downtrodden ; it has never taken bribes, — 
and that is more than can be said of its most 
conspicuous critics. 

187 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

One of the accusations against " yellow 
journalism " is that it steps outside of the 
legitimate business of gathering news and 
commenting upon it — that it acts. It is argued 
that a newspaper which creates events and 
thus creates news, cannot, in human nature, 
be a fair witness. There is a grain of truth 
in this criticism ; but it must not be forgotten 
that the very nature of journalism enables it 
to act in the very heart of events at critical 
moments and with knowledge not possessed 
by the general public ; that what is every- 
body's business and the business of nobody 
in particular, is the journalist's business. 

There are times when public emergencies 
call for the sudden intervention of some 
power outside of governmental authority. Then 
journalism acts. Let me give an instance. 

When Admiral Camara was preparing to 
sail with a powerful Spanish fleet to attack 
Admiral Dewey in Manila Bay, two American 
monitors armed with ten-inch rifles were on 
their way across the Pacific to the Philippines. 
It was a perilous situation, more perilous than 
the American people were permitted to know. 

1 88 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

I have seen Admiral Dewey's letters to Con- 
sul General Wildman at Hong Kong, begging 
for news of the movements of the Spanish fleet 
and confessing that his squadron was too 
weak to meet it unless the two monitors 
should arrive in time. The threatened admiral 
made no secret of his anxiety. The question 
of victory or defeat or retreat depended on 
whether the Spanish fleet could be delayed 
until the powerful monitors had time to reach 
Manila. 

In that critical hour, when the statesmen at 
Washington were denouncing "yellow journal- 
ism," I received the following message in the 
London office of the New York Journal : — 



Note. — The letter is reproduced on the next page. 



I89 



NEW YORK JOURNAL 

W. R. HEARST. 



Dear Mr. Creelman:- 

I wish you would at once make preparations, 
so that in case the Spanish fleet actually starts for 
Manila we can buy some big English steamer at the eastern 
end of the Mediterranean and take her to some part of the 
Suez eanal where we can then sink her and obstruct the 
passage of the Spanish warships. This must be- done if 
the American monitors sent from San Francisco have not 
reached Dewey and he should be placed in a critical posi- 
tion by the approach of Camara's fleet. I understand 
tbat if .a British vessel were taken into the canal and 
sunk under the circumstances outlined above, tfce British 
Government would not allow her to be blown up to clear a 
passage and it might take time enough to raise her to 
put Dewey in a safe position. 

Yours very truly, 



^h^h^^^ 



190 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Camara's fleet left Spain to attack Dewey 
and actually entered the Suez Canal; but the 
sinking of a steamer in the narrow channel 
was made unnecessary by the sudden abandon- 
ment of the expedition and the return of the 
Spanish admiral to the threatened coast of 
Spain. 

One does not have to be a great lawyer to 
understand that the obstruction of the Suez 
Canal could not have been undertaken by any 
responsible representative of the American 
government without a grave breach of inter- 
national law. Nor was there any existing 
private agency that could so well undertake 
such a costly and serious patriotic service as 
a newspaper whose correspondents kept it in 
almost hourly touch with the changing facts 
of the situation. I will not attempt to defend 
this contemplated deed as a matter of law. 
It needs no defence among Americans. The 
facts are given as an illustration of the part 
which the journalism of action is beginning 
to play in the affairs of nations, and the vary- 
ing methods employed. 

But journalism that acts is no new thing, 

191 . 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

although it is beginning to act on new lines. 
The London Times defended Queen Caroline 
against the persecutions of George IV. and was 
denounced as a vulgar meddler. The same 
newspaper, after compelling the recall of 
Lord Raglan from the command of the British 
forces in the Crimea, forced Lord Aberdeen's 
ministry to resign. That was "yellow journal- 
ism," and John Walter was bitterly assailed for 
his sensationalism. Again, in 1840, the Times 
went beyond the orthodox frontier of journalism 
and, at enormous risk and expense, exposed 
gigantic frauds, saving millions of dollars to 
the merchants of London. A marble tablet 
over the entrance of the Times office records the 
gratitude of the people of the British metropo- 
lis. The New York Herald sent Stanley to 
find Livingstone in Africa, and equipped the 
Jeannette expedition to search for the North 
Pole. The New Yoi'k Times smashed the great 
Tweed Ring, which had plundered and defied 
the public for years. The New York World 
averted a national disgrace by providing a 
pedestal for the Statue of Liberty presented 
by the people of France. The same newspaper 

192 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

defeated the famous bond conspiracy and 
compelled the Cleveland administration to 
allow the general public to compete in the 
$100,000,000 loan, saving millions of dollars 
for the treasury and demonstrating the financial 
independence of the United States. 

Surely, if it be right for a newspaper to urge 
others to act in any given direction, it is also 
right for the newspaper itself to act. 



193 



CHAPTER X 

Battle of El Caney 

FROM the torn hammock on which I lay 
among my comrades, under a strip of 
rain-soaked canvas, the tall figure of 
General Lawton could be seen moving in the 
gray dawning light, toward the mud-clogged 
road along which the American forces had been 
marching all night, in the direction of Santiago 
de Cuba, where the Spaniards stood in the 
trenches and fortifications awaiting the attack. 
The battle which ended the rule of Spain in 
the western world, after four centuries of glory 
and shame, was about to begin. 

A sturdy little New York war artist, clad in a 
red blanket, — the only dry thing in our camp, — 
made his way through the bushes to a neighbor- 
ing stream and returned with our canteens filled. 
" No time to lose," he said. " Lawton will 
open on El Caney at sunrise. His battery is in 
position now. Better not wait for breakfast. 

194 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

We have no fire, anyhow. Turn out, fellows — 
you've been asleep three hours." And the 
damp and sleepy correspondents arose to face 
another day's work. 

Presently we were trudging along in the 
mire, tortured by the sour smells of the tram- 
pled vegetation, which yesterday's fierce sun 
had fermented, and the tropical fever, from 
which few escaped. 

Monstrous land-crabs, green and scarlet, with 
leprous blotches of white, writhed across our 
path. Birds sang softly in the tangled chap- 
arral and tall grass. Crimson and yellow blos- 
soms glowed in the dense green growths. 
Troops of vultures wheeled lazily against the 
dawn-tinged clouds, or sat in the tall cocoanut 
palms. As the sun rose, it struck sparkles from 
the dripping foliage. But hunger and fever 
and news-eager journalism had no eye for these 
things. Before us were thousands of men pre- 
paring to die ; nine miles behind us were steam 
vessels ready to carry our despatches to the 
cable station in Jamaica; and in New York 
were great multitudes, waiting to know the 
result of the battle. 

195 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

When we reached El Poso hill, with its 
crowded battalions creeping forward like 
thousand-footed brown caterpillars, I bade 
farewell to my companions, and, turning to 
I the left, took the trail toward El Caney — for 
at midnight a friendly general had whispered 
in my ear that the real fight of the day was 
to be there. 

It boots not to tell of that five miles' jour- 
ney in the withering heat, along paths choked 
up with stalwart negro troops, through thorny 
thickets that stung the flesh, across swamps 
knee deep in water, over jungly hills and 
slimy streams. The stone fort on the hill 
before El Caney was plain to be seen, and 
there was but one thing for a correspondent 
without a horse to do, — make straight for it 
across the country, and let details take care 
of themselves ; for the newspaper man must 
be in the very foreground of battle, if he 
would see with his own eyes the dread scenes 
that make war worth describing. 

At last I reached the top of a little hill, 
so close to the gray fort, with its red and 
yellow flag streaming above its walls, that I 

196 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

could see the Spanish faces under the row of 
straw hats in the outlying trench on the slope, 
and the shining barrels of the Mauser rifles 
projecting over the earthworks. Capron's bat- 
tery, a mile and a half away, was hurling 
shells at the fort; and as the projectiles 
screamed overhead, the men in the trench 
ducked their heads. They were young men 
— not a beard among them; yet no Spaniard 
need hang his head for their conduct that 
terrible day. 

It was a rumpled landscape of intense green, 
bounded by misty mountains on one side, and 
stretching toward a sea ridge on which could 
be discerned the ancient battlements of Morro 
Castle guarding the harbor of the city whose 
land approaches were obstructed by miles of 
intrenchments and barbed-wire fences. Noth- 
ing could surpass the beauty of that tangled 
scene, with its flowering hills, tall, tossing 
grasses, and groves of palm trees. And be- 
yond the stretches of rolling country were the 
dim rooftops of Santiago. 

El Caney was five miles to the right and 
slightly to the rear of our cavalry division, 

197 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

which was massed at El Poso in front of the 
intrenched slopes of San Juan. The generals 
had decided that the village and its stone fort 
must be captured by Lawton's division before 
the whole army could be joined for a united 
assault on the city. Chaffee's brigade was to 
make the frontal attack, while Ludlow's and 
Miles's brigades were to divert the enemy by 
an assault on the south side of El Caney. 

" Whoo-o-o-oong ! " 

A shell from Capron's distant battery tore 
a hole in the stone fort. The Spaniards in the 
trench fired volleys at imaginary enemies in 
the brush — for the van of our army was far 
away. 

The only sign of life about the fort itself 
was a black hen that ran out of an open 
door at the side and fluttered excitedly along 
the foot of the wall. There were men crouch- 
ing with rifles behind the loopholed walls, 
but they kept out of sight. 

From the boulder on which I sat under a 
sheltering bush I could see the tan-brown 
skirmish lines of Chaffee's brigade advancing 
over the hills, the sunlight flashing on their 

198 




^ 






ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

arms. And down in the valley to the left of 
the village, little brown squads and ranks stole 
from thicket to thicket, as Ludlow's and Miles's 
flanking regiments crept toward El Caney. 
Nearer, nearer, nearer, they moved, on the 
front and the side, emerging in quick dashes 
through open spaces or disappearing in the 
wild undergrowths, lying down, standing up, 
wheeling to the right or left, as the voice of 
the bugles commanded. 

How strange it is to sit quietly, pencil in 
hand, and watch such a scene ; to set down 
the sounds and colors as a matter of business 
— to be in the midst of the movement, but not 
a part of it ! — but no stranger, surely, than 
to be moving on, rifle in hand, destined to kill 
some man against whom you have no personal 
grievance, some fellow-mortal with a home 
and kindred like your own. 

As the infantry approached, the sound of 
volley-firing came from all sides, — a sharp, 
ripping noise, like the tearing of canvas. 
But there was no smoke. Bullets came sing- 
ing over the hills, and little puffs of dust 
around the fort showed where they struck. 

199 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

The Spaniards in the trench strained their 
eyes to catch a glimpse of the Americans. 
An officer stood on the breastworks and 
searched the scene through his field-glass. A 
soldier crawled along the wall of the fort and 
swept the field with a telescope. There was 
an element of mystery in smokeless fighting 
that puzzled the defenders of El Caney. 
Where was the enemy ? On which side would 
the attack be made ? 

Suddenly line after line of dusty, brown 
skirmishers swept up to the ridges command- 
ing the Spanish intrenchments and lay flat 
upon the ground. General Chaffee himself, 
with his hat on the back of his head, hurried 
up and down behind the prostrate Seventh and 
Seventeenth regiments of infantry, hoarsely 
urging his men to keep their ground and 
shoot straight, while the concentrated fire of 
all the intrenchments around El Caney tore 
up the grass. 

" Keep her going, boys ! " he shouted as his 
hat was shot from his head. " Don't mind 
their fire ; that's what you're here for. Keep 
her going ! Steady there — ah ! poor fellow ! " 

200 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

A dead soldier rolled at his feet — a mere 
youth, with yellow hair and staring blue eyes. 
" Here ! some one ! take this man's rifle and 
get in on the line ! " And the general moved 
on, his harsh, quick commands being repeated 
by the officers kneeling along the lines. 

Now the Twelfth Infantry began to press 
its brown ranks of cracking riflery into the 
sheltered gullies in front of the fort, and Com- 
pany C, throwing itself face down on the hill 
where I sat, sent a steady fire into the Span- 
ish trench. The Spaniards returned the vol- 
leys, but one by one we could see them fall 
behind the breastworks, here and there a leg 
or arm sticking up. The living men in the 
trench cowered down. But still the bullets 
came ting-ing, and the hilltop was strewn 
with our dead and dying. The garrison of 
the fort were using the loopholes. 

Nothing moved at the fort but the black 
hen. As volley after volley swept the hill, 
she dashed to and fro, growing angrier every 
moment. Her feathers stood on end and 
she pecked savagely at the air. A more in- 
dignant fowl never trod the earth. She flapped 

201 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

her wings and hopped into fighting attitudes 
as the bullets spattered around her. I could 
hear the soldiers laughing as the hen ran 
from side to side, believing that the whole 
battle was directed against herself. Poor crea- 
ture ! She escaped ten thousand bullets only 
to have her neck wrung by a hungry soldier 
that night. 

Leaving the hill on which I had watched the 
fight for hours, — with occasional efforts to 
bandage the wounded or drag the dead off the 
firing line, — I went to the next ridge, where 
Chaffee and his two regiments were facing the 
main intrenchments of the village. By this 
time the infantry volleying was terrific. Dead 
and dying men and officers could be seen every- 
where. The Spaniards were selling their sov- 
ereignty dearly. 

And Chaffee ! He raged up and down be- 
hind his men, the soul of war incarnate. His 
eyes seemed to flash fire. There never was a 
finer soldier nor a sterner face. 

" For your country, boys ! for your country ! " 
he cried. " Here ! get back on the line, damn 
you," — a white-faced, exhausted soldier was 

202 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

crawling backwards in the grass, — "and do 
your duty. You'll have the rest of your life to 
loaf in when you get home." A moment later 
the soldier rolled over on his side, and lay still. 
A few drops of blood stained his jacket. 

While I talked with the general, a bullet 
clipped a button from his breast. He smiled in 
a half-startled, half-amused way. It had begun 
to rain. A bullet tore the cape from my rain- 
coat. 

"Looks better without it," said the general, 
smilingly. 

What with heat, hunger, fever, and fatigue I 
could hardly stand. We sat down under a tree, 
.and I told the general how close I had been to 
the fort and how long I had watched its de- \ 
fenders. Then I suggested a bayonet charge, 
and offered to lead the way, if he would send 
troops to a wrinkle in the hill which would 
partly shelter them until they were within close 
rushing distance. This was hardly the business 
of a correspondent ; but whatever of patriotism 
or excitement was stirring others in that place 
of carnage had got into my blood too. 

The general said that he would send men to 

203 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

investigate, and presently he ordered Company 
F of the Twelfth Infantry to make a reconnais- 
sance. Making my way to a mango grove at 
the foot of the hill, I saw Company F start up 
the wrong side — that is, the side toward the 
village and not the side our troops had silenced. 
A few moments later the company was driven 
back by volleys from the Spanish intrench- 
ments in the village, many of the men wounded. 
The soldiers crowded behind the mango trees 
in the very vortex of a cross-fire. The leaves 
and bark were clipped from the trees by that 
appalling storm of bullets. Yet I could see 
some of them eating mangoes, and patting their 
stomachs, half-indifferent to their surroundings, 
in the fierce pleasure of that unexpected meal. 

After a while, Captain Haskell, the acting 
adjutant of the battalion to which Company F 
belonged, a fine old, white-bearded veteran, 
came to where I was. He listened to the plan 
for the charge, and nodded his head approv- 
ingly. Gathering his men together, he indi- 
cated that he was ready. 

We pushed our way through a line of low 
bushes and started up the hill to the fort. The 

204 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

only weapon I had was a revolver, and the hol- 
ster was slung around to the back, so that I 
should not be tempted to draw. 

When I found myself out on the clear 
escarped slope, in front of the fort and its 
deadly trench, walking at the head of a storm- 
ing party, I began to realize that I had ceased 
to be a journalist and was now — foolishly or 
wisely, recklessly, meddlesomely, or patriotically 
— a part of the army, a soldier without warrant 
to kill. 

It is only three hundred feet to the top of the 
hill, and yet the slope looked a mile long. 

Who will judge a man in such a moment ? 
Who can analyze his motives ? Can he do it 
himself, with his heart leaping wildly and his 
imagination on fire ? There was the Spanish 
flag, a glorious prize for my newspaper. There 
was the trench and the dark loopholes and 
death. On all the hills were the onlooking 
troops, stirring the soul to patriotism. And 
away back in the past were scenes of Spanish 
cruelty and the wolfish Captain-general in Ha- 
vana, telling me that I could never return to 
Cuba without forgiveness from Spain. Behind 

205 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

me I could hear the tread of the soldiers as we 
crept, crept, crept — and then I lost courage 
and ran straight toward the trench, eager to 
have it over. 

There was a barbed wire fence in front of 
the trench, a barrier to prevent charges. But 
it had never occurred to the minds of the 
Spanish engineers that the accursed Yankees 
— unsoldierly shopkeepers ! — would think of 
carrying wire nippers in their pockets. 

When I reached the fence I was within ten 
feet of the trench and could see dead hands 
and faces and the hats of the living soldiers 
crouching there. A scissors-like motion of the 
fingers indicated to Captain Haskell that men 
with wire nippers were needed. Two soldiers 
ran up and began to sever the wires. 

As I stood there I could hear my heart beat- 
ing. There was something terrifying in the 
silence of the fort. At what moment would the 
volley come ? Were the Spaniards even now 
taking aim in those deep loopholes ? Not a 
shot had been fired. It would come at once, 
and my body would go rolling down, down into 
the bushes at the bottom of the hill. No one 

206 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

spoke. Snip ! snip ! went the nippers. A 
Spaniard in the trench thrust his face up for 
a moment and instantly shrank down again. 
Blood dripped from his mouth. I shall never, 
to my dying day, forget the look of agony and 
entreaty in that countenance. 

It took but a few seconds to cut a hole in the 
fence and reach the edge of the trench. It was 
crowded with dead and dying men. Those 
who were unhurt were crouching down waiting 
for the end. A deep groan came from the 
bottom of the bloody pit. 

A silent signal, and one of the soldiers who 
had cut the wire fence advanced and covered 
the men in the trench with his rifle. A spoken 
word and the cowering Spaniards leaped up, 
dropped their rifles and raised their hands in 
token of surrender. There was a pleased look 
on their haggard faces that took a little of 
the glory out of the situation. 

In less time than it takes to write it, the 
trench was crossed and the open door at the 
end of the fort was reached. The scene inside 
was too horrible for description. Our fire had 
killed most of the garrison, and the dead and 

207 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

wounded lay on the floor in every conceivable 
attitude. A wail of terror went up from help- 
less men writhing in their own blood. Just 
inside of the door stood a young Spanish officer, 
surrounded by his men. His face was blood- 
less, and his lips were drawn away from his 
teeth in a ghastly way. Beside him was a 
soldier holding a ramrod, to which was fastened 
a white handkerchief, — a mute appeal for life. 

The officer threw his hands up. He could 
speak French. Would he surrender ? Yes, 
yes, yes ! — do with him what we pleased. 
Did he understand that if his men fired another 
shot his safety could not be assured ? Yes, 
yes, yes ! and every Spaniard dropped his 
weapon. 

I looked above the roofless walls for the 
flag. It was gone. A lump came in my throat. 
The prize had disappeared. 

" A shell carried the flag away," said the 
Spanish officer. " It is lying outside." 

Dashing through the door and running 
around to the side facing El Caney, I saw the 
red and yellow flag lying in the dust, a frag- 
ment of the staff still attached to it. I picked 

208 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

it up and wagged it at the intrenched village. 
A wiser man would have refrained from that 
challenge ; but I was not wise that day. In- 
stantly the Spanish intrenchments on the village 
slopes replied with volleys, and I ran, in a cloud 
of dust, to the other side of the fort, where our 
soldiers seized the captured flag, waved it and 
cheered like madmen. From every hillside 
came the sound of shouting troops as the torn 
symbol of victory was tossed from hand to 
hand. 

Although bullets were beating around the 
door of the fort, Captain Haskell — who, with 
Captain Clarke, had kept the rifles of Company 
F busily employed — agreed to enter and 
assure the prisoners of their safety. We went 
in and, while we stood talking to the Spanish 
officer, I felt a stinging pain in the upper part of 
the left arm, as though a blow had been struck 
with a shut fist. The sensation was no more 
and no less than that which might have come 
from a rough punch by some too hilarious 
friend. It whirled me half around but did not 
knock me down. The next moment there was 
a numbness in the arm, a darting pain in the 

209 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

hand and a sharp sensation in the back — the 
arm hung loose as though it did not belong to 
me. A Mauser bullet, entering one of the 
loopholes, had smashed the arm and torn a 
hole in my back. 

It is not necessary to describe how I stag- 
gered to a hammock in a compartment of the 
fort and lay there, hearing my own blood drip, 
how Major John A. Logan and five of his 
gallant men passed me out of the fort through 
a hole made by our artillery, and how I was 
carried down the hill and laid on the roadside 
among the wounded, with the captured Spanish 
colors thrown over me. After all, it was a 
mere personal incident in a well-fought battle, 
and hundreds of other men had suffered more. 

Our troops were still fighting their way into 
the village, and we could hear the savage rip- 
rip-ripping of the rifles in the distance and hear 
the calling of the bugles. 

Then an American flag was carried past us 
on its way to the fort and brave old Colonel 
Haskell, with bullet holes in his neck and leg, 
lifted himself painfully on one elbow to greet 
it. A wounded negro soldier, lying flat on his 

210 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

back, raised his bloody hand to his head in 
salute. Bullets sang above the heads of the 
surgeons as they bent over the victims. 

The heat was terrific. Things swam in the 
air. There was a strange yellow glare on every- 
thing. Voices of thunder seemed to come from 
the blurred figures moving to and fro. A horse 
twenty feet high stamped the earth with his 
feet and made the distant mountain tops rock. 
Little fiery blobs kept dropping down from 
somewhere and the world was whirling upside 
down. Some one was being killed ? Who was 
being killed ? Whose sword was lost ? Why 
was that general standing on one leg and hav- 
ing all his buttons shot off ? Copy ! copy ! an 
hour to spare before the paper goes to press ! 

Some one knelt in the grass beside me and 
put his hand on my fevered head. Opening 
my eyes, I saw Mr. Hearst, the proprietor of 
\ the New York Journal, a straw hat with a 
bright ribbon on his head, a revolver at his 
belt, and a pencil and note-book in his hand. 
The man who had provoked the war had come 
to see the result with his own eyes and, finding 
one of his correspondents prostrate, was doing 

211 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

the work himself. Slowly he took down my 
story of the fight. Again and again the ting- 
ing of Mauser bullets interrupted. But he 
seemed unmoved. That battle had to be re- 
ported somehow. 

"I'm sorry you're hurt, but" — and his face 
was radiant with enthusiasm — " wasn't it a 
splendid fight? We must beat every paper 
in the world." 

After doing what he could to make me com- 
fortable, Mr. Hearst mounted his horse and 
dashed away for the seacoast, where a fast 
steamer was waiting to carry him across the 
sea to a cable station. 

Before the sun went down the wounded men 
of Chaffee's brigade and a few from the other 
brigades were carried on litters to a sloping 
field beside a stream, and there we lay all 
night under the stars, while Lawton's division 
— having taken El Caney — moved on to join 
the rest of the army. 

How peaceful the spangled blue sky seemed, 
so far above the blood-stained earth ! Its quiet 
beauty reproached us. There all was order 
and harmony. 

212 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

" So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven." 

What was the power that brought so many 
men together bent on mutual slaughter ? Was 
it all foreordained in the law of the universe ? 
and had we all been moving helplessly 
through countless ages, since the first impulse 
stirred primordial life in Eden, to meet at last 
as Spaniards and Americans, tearing each 
other's flesh and turning the fair green fields 
into graveyards ? 

Who that was there can forget the next 
day, when the Spanish sharpshooters who had 
escaped from the village tried for hours to kill 
the defenceless soldiers lying in our camp ? 
Graves were dug and the dead buried before 
our eyes. And although the field was strewn 
with torn and shattered men, no sound of 
complaining was heard. There was something 
extraordinary in the stoicism of that place. 
The profound excitement seemed to lift the 
sufferers out of themselves, above the power 
of pain to unman. Not a groan. Not a 
whimper. The rain beat upon them. The 
terrible tropical sun made the fever leap in 

213 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

their veins and dazzled their eyes. Again the 
rain soaked their blankets and again the sun 
tormented them. The bullets of skulking 
assassins hummed over them. Men gave last 
messages for their families. Men died. But 
not a sound of protest broke the silence. I 
saw more real heroism in that scene of pain 
than ever I saw in battle. 

Vultures gathered around the camp and 
waited in the wet grass. Nearer they came, 
with hesitating, grotesque hops, watching, 
watching, watching. There was a horrible 
humor in the way they hovered near a splendid 
negro soldier who lay on the outer edge of 
the field, perking their ugly heads from side 
to side impatiently. 

The wounded man slowly raised himself on 
his elbows and flinging a stone at the nearest 
vulture, he cried : " Gwan away. You're not 
goin' to git me. Wastin' yo' time, suh." 

Then he rolled back and chuckled. Even 
in that place the deathless American sense 
of humor found its voice. 

Late in the second night we heard the 
sudden sound of infantry volleying in the 

214 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

distance, and from our litters we could see 
the flashing of cannons in the direction of 
the San Juan slopes. Louder and louder the 
roar of battle swelled. It was the attempt 
of the Spaniards to dislodge the centre of our 
army from its position. But no one in the 
camp knew what was going on. Then the 
tumult died out, and silence followed. What 
had happened ? Had our lines been broken ? 
Were the Spaniards advancing upon us ? 
Would they spare wounded men ? Sick called 
to sick in the darkness. The sense of terror 
grew. All night we waited for news ; all 
night in fever and silence. 

At daybreak a messenger arrived, and a 
few minutes later the surgeon in charge of 
the camp went from litter to litter, announcing 
that he had been ordered to abandon the place 
at once and get to the rear. Any man who 
could stand on his legs must walk ; there were 
only enough well men to carry the most 
desperately wounded. 

" Have we been defeated, Doctor ? " 
" I don't know. All I know is that we 
must move instantly." 

215 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

Alas ! I cannot tell the story of that 
fearful journey. It can be better imagined. 
Some lived, some died. Looking back at 
that stumbling, fainting procession in the sour 
roads, the thing that stands out most distinctly 
in my memory is the pluck and patience of 
the wounded negroes. 



216 



CHAPTER XI 
Heroes of Peace and War 

TWO august scenes of national sorrow ! 
— the thunderous entombment of Gen- 
eral Grant on Riverside Heights, with 
the reunited commanders of the North and 
South weeping over his coffin; and the burial 
of Mr. Gladstone in Westminster Abbey, the 
end of the most majestic period of English 
democracy. 

As I look over my wrinkled note-books I 
seem to see again the glittering magnificence 
of these spectacles and to hear the thrilling 
outbursts of funeral music as the souls of two 
nations rise to their lips. 

One vanished from sight like a god of war, 
with a shining sea of bayonets sweeping about 
his grave beneath drifting clouds of cannon 
smoke — the peace-compeller, at whose death- 
bed the greatest war of modern times really 
ended. 

217 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

The other was laid in the earth to the sound 
of organ music, the greatest Englishman of the 
nineteenth century — a man who turned a mon- 
archy into a democracy without shedding a 
drop of human blood. 



London, May 28, 1898. 

The century which began with Napoleon and 
imperialism uttered its last note in the twilight 
of Westminster Abbey with Gladstone and 
democracy. 

They took the great commoner of England 
from the vast-vaulted hall, built by the son of 
William the Conqueror, and bore him in state 
through mighty multitudes in Parliament Square, 
laying him under the solemn arches of the old 
abbey, among the bones of his enemies, while 
princes and dukes, earls and marquises, counts 
and barons, the Prince of Wales, and all the 
upholders of the proud aristocracy which he 
stripped of power, were gathered at his burial. 

Early in the morning the Lords and Com- 
mons assembled in the House of Parliament 
and marched silently into Westminster Hall, 

218 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

where the body of Gladstone, in a plain oaken 
box made by the village carpenter of Hawar- 
den, lay among huge flaring candles, under 
the carved beams of the giant roof that once 
looked down upon the trial and death sentence 
of Charles I. and the ordeal of Warren Hast- 
ings, the plunderer of India. Each of the 
parliamentary bodies was led by its sergeant- 
at-arms, bearing a golden mace. 

The Earl Marshal and the heralds of the 
British Empire drew near, and when the Bishop 
of London had uttered a prayer, the oak box, 
covered with a pall of white and gold, was 
lifted from the black platform on which it had 
rested in state for three days, and the great 
procession of Lords and Commons, privy coun- 
cillors, royal magistracy, and all the bright her- 
aldry of Great Britain, moved slowly outward. 

On one .side of the dead leader of England's 
democracy walked the Prince of Wales, the 
Marquis of Salisbury, Mr. Balfour, the Duke 
of Rutland, and Lord Rendel ; on the other 
side walked the Duke of York, Lord Kimberley, 
Sir William Harcourt, Lord Rosebery, and 
George Armistead. 

219 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

As far as the eye could see, the people of 
London were gathered, bareheaded and silent. 
The sky was leaden, and a gentle moisture 
dropped down from the clouds, but no man 
covered his head. 

In spite of the immensity of the crowd and 
of the pressure from all the streets leading 
into Parliament Square, the stillness of the 
scene was like the hush of a sepulchre. 
You could see the eyeballs of the people as 
they moved, but you could hear no sound as 
the simple funeral car was borne slowly 
forward. 

That silence, that immobility, that unutter- 
able reverence of the common multitude in 
the open air was the greatest tribute of the 
English people to England's greatest states- 
man. Shrill, headlong London was suddenly 
struck dumb. 

Within the gray old abbey the sound of 
trombones and the deep, rich tumult of the 
organ mingling in Beethoven's Funeral Equale 
— then Schubert's funeral march in D minor 
and Beethoven's glorious funeral march — 
sounded the approach of the procession. 

220 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAT 

The mighty nave was crowded with men 
and women, princesses, peeresses, wives of 
ambassadors, actresses, leaders of every rank 
and fashion. And rising above them gleamed 
the sculptured white forms of the heroes, 
statesmen, and philosophers who made the 
British Empire. 

Another silent company of distinguished 
spectators sat in the transept and choir before 
the great altar, with its dim gold carvings and 
the dusty shield, helmet, and saddle of 
Henry V. hanging in the shadowy air. 

In the south transept rose huge tiers of 
seats for the Commons, hiding the hallowed 
tablets of the Poets' Corner, and in the north 
transept, built over the age-stained monu- 
ments of dead prime ministers, were tiers of 
seats for the Lords. 

The ancient pavement of the abbey was 
covered with dark blue felt, and at one side 
— O Death, thou leveller! — about six feet 
away from the statue of Lord Beaconsfield, 
was the open grave — a deep cavity, coffin- 
shaped, lined with black cloth and rimmed 
with a thin line of white. Three strips of 

221 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

brown canvas tape were stretched loosely across 
the opening, ready for their burden. 

In the aisles on either side of the north 
transept, behind the iron railings, were crowded 
the newspaper men of almost every civilized 
country, among them the editors and writers 
who supported Mr. Gladstone in all his later 
battles for the people. 

There was a hush. The vast audience arose. 
Mrs. Gladstone, wrinkled and trembling with 
age and sorrow, leaning on the arms of her 
sons, Herbert and Henry, advanced to a seat 
in front of the chancel railing, where she 
knelt and bowed her head in prayer, while 
every eye and every heart regarded her. 

Suddenly the whole vast space resounded 
with music. Louder and stronger and richer 
it swelled against the hoary columns, while 
the venerable banners hanging over the tombs 
of kings and conquerors swayed as the waves 
of sound rolled forth ; but still Mrs. Glad- 
stone remained on her knees. It echoed from 
chamber to chamber, — the graves of mitred 
saints, the ashes of murdered princes, the dim 
tomb of Mary Queen of Scots, the faded 

222 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

shrine of Edward the Confessor — and swept 
crumbling walls carven with the crimes and 
glories of a thousand British years. 

Once more there was silence. Again the 
audience stood up. This time it was to honor 
the Princess of Wales, who entered clad in 
deep mourning. Even Mrs. Gladstone invol- 
untarily rose to her feet as her future queen 
approached, the widow humbling herself in 
the subject ; and again the thrilling organ 
tones mingled with the crashing brasses. 

White spears of light thrust themselves 
through the lofty windows, save where through 
the painted glass came the soft radiance of 
crimson and yellow and green and blue. Far 
up toward the gray roof appeared eager 
faces swarming in the sculptured openings 
and fantastic swirls of the triforium. 

The ponderous western doors swung open, 
and into the old abbey surged the Commons, 
preceded by the great gold mace and the 
Speaker in his resplendent robes. On they 
came, shuffling and jostling, four abreast, the 
witnesses of Gladstone's triumphs and defeats. 
And as they moved into the end of the tran- 

223 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

sept and settled into their seats, the aged 
privy councillors, preceded by heralds, and the 
House of Lords, led by the little, red-faced 
lord chancellor in his mighty wig, and fol- 
lowed by his bewigged clerks, advanced sol- 
emnly to the gallery erected for the peers. 

Then came Sir Robert Collins, representing 
the Duchess of Albany ; Colonel Collins, rep- 
resenting the Marchioness of Lome ; Lord 
Monson, representing the Duke and Duchess 
of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha; a group of grave 
men, representing the monarchs of Europe, 
and much bedizened with gold lace; and then 
Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, the griz- 
zled old Duke of Cambridge, and the Duke 
of Connaught, and their jaunty equerries. 

Meanwhile, the canons and clergy, arranged 
according to their rank, in white and black 
and scholastic scarlet, moved with a great 
choir of boys gathered from the royal chap- 
els into the chancel and the space in front of 
the altar. 

And now came the body of the greatest of 
Englishmen, borne aloft on the willing shoul- 
ders of his humble followers, with the little 

224 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

black-whiskered Earl Marshal of England strut- 
ting before it, and the future king and em- 
peror, the prince minister, the heir ultimate 
to the throne, and the other distinguished pall- 
bearers trudging along on either side, their 
hands lightly holding the white and gold pall. 

Behind them walked Garter King-at-Arms, 
with his glittering baton, and the other her- 
alds ; then the Rev. Stephen Gladstone, Herbert 
Gladstone, Henry Gladstone, Miss Gladstone, 
Mrs. Drew, little Dorothy Drew, William Glynne, 
and Charles Gladstone, the dead man's little 
heir. With them were a group of villagers 
from Hawarden, a clumsy, bashful, emotional 
following, overwhelmed by the mighty spec- 
tacle before them. 

When the casket was laid in front of the 
shrine, the scene was suggestive beyond the 
power of words. 

To the right of the altar stretched, row on 
row, the huddled House of Commons, and on 
the left were assembled the Lords of Eng- 
land, Ireland, and Scotland, with the lord 
chancellor, in his wig, sitting in the front 
row, the gold mace and great seal on the 

225 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAT 

table before him. On either side of the pave- 
ment surrounding the open grave, were Lord 
Chief Justice Russell, John Morley, Lord 
Spencer, Mr. Bryce, Sir Henry Campbell- 
Bannerman, and the other living members of 
Gladstone's famous ministries. At the altar 
was the dead leader and his weeping widow ; 
behind them the ambassadors and ministers 
of nearly every nation on earth. 

As the choir sang, " I am the Resurrection 
and the Life," the Prince of Wales bent ten- 
derly above the venerable widow in the soft 
candle-light. He touched her shoulder gently, 
and whispered words of comfort. 

The Commons looked across at the Lords, 
and the Lords looked down at the open grave 
of the greatest foe of their order since Crom- 
well. The grim white statue of Lord Beacons- 
field, in his carved robes and chains of office, 
rose triumphantly beside the Lords, a companion 
to the rosy Lord Chancellor, in his wig, presid- 
ing over the nothingness of heredity. 

The hand that had dragged privilege down 
and lifted humanity up was powerless to do 
more ; the voice that had called manhood to 

226 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

power in England was stilled forever. Ah ! 
well might the little great Lord Chancellor, 
perk in his gorgeous robes, and the Lords look 
down upon that grave with dry eyes ! Democ- 
racy incarnate was about to disappear in the 
earth of which it was born, the ashes of its 
mightiest leader to become a part of the com- 
mon dust of London. 

Then there came to the head of the ancient 
altar stairs the white-haired Dean Bradley, and 
behind him the Archbishop of Canterbury, the 
pope of England. After the choir had chanted 
" Lord, Thou hast been our refuge from one 
generation to another," and " Turn Thee again, 
O Lord, at the last, and be gracious unto Thy 
servant," the venerable dean read the lesson. 

The casket was carried over to the grave, 
while the choir and audience sang " Rock of 
Ages," to the accompaniment of the organ and 
the band. It was the hymn Gladstone had 
turned into Latin. 

Mrs. Gladstone tottered over between her 
sons Herbert and Stephen, and took her seat 
at the head of the grave. It was the only chair 
in the place. Around the grave were grouped 

227 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

the Prince of Wales, Lord Salisbury, Lord 
Rosebery, the Duke of York, and the other 
pall-bearers, together with the relatives and ser- 
vants of the Gladstone household. Lord Salis- 
bury's huge form towered up beside his future 
king, his shaggy head covered with a black 
skullcap. 

While the great multitude sang " Praise to the 
Holiest in the Heights," Mrs. Gladstone stood 
up and moved her head feebly to the music. 
Her lips and hands trembled, while under her 
veil could be seen her pale face, wet with tears. 

There was another pause. The great abbey 
was suddenly silent. Gladstone was gently 
lowered into his grave, and the voice of the 
Archbishop of Canterbury was heard in the 
final prayer of the burial service — shrill, harsh, 
far-reaching. 

The supreme moment had come. Mrs. Glad- 
stone knelt on the black floor and leaned far 
over, with a loving cry, as if she would drop 
into the grave herself. Tears ran down Lord 
Salisbury's rugged face, the Prince of Wales 
wiped his eyes, and the sound of sobbing was 
heard on every side. 

228 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Suddenly there was an outburst from the 
choir, soft, high, and sweet — "Their bodies 
are buried in peace, but their name liveth 
evermore." 

It filled the vast building with rapture; it 
reached from the wife, kneeling among the 
great of the earth, to the husband lying in the 
bottom of the pit. 

The archbishop pronounced the benediction, 
and Mrs. Gladstone was lifted to her feet by 
her two sons. She swayed to and fro, half 
fainting, but presently she drew herself up 
erect, and when the audience sang " O God, 
our Help in Ages Past," she smiled, and raised 
her eyes. 

And now came a touching scene. As the 
men, women, boys, and girls of the Gladstone 
family pressed around the grave, the Prince of 
Wales, the Prime Minister, and the other great 
officers of state drew back reverently. Mrs. 
Gladstone took Dorothy Drew by the hand and 
pointed into the grave. Then she took Glad- 
stone's little heir and, again pointing to the 
bottom of the grave, she whispered something 
to him that no one could hear. She did not 

229 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

point to the future King of England or the 
Prime Minister or the princes. She did not 
direct his boyish gaze to the Lord Chancellor, 
sitting high among the peers behind his ponder- 
ous mace of gold. She bade him look into the 
grave of the man who would not accept a title 
and yet came to be greater than them all. 

Garter King-at-Arms, stepped lightly to the 
side of the grave and, in a voice that echoed 
throughout the abbey, proclaimed the civil 
status of Gladstone, and named the offices he 
had filled. 

Little need for the College of Heralds to 
tell the Lords what he had done who lay be- 
tween those oaken boards ! The glory of his 
life shone through half a century of English 
history, eloquent and useful through all history 
to come. Rather was tinselled heraldry honored 
by the opportunity to speak at such a grave. 

Presently the Prince of Wales approached 
Mrs. Gladstone, and all made way for him as 
he stooped down, and, taking her hand in his, 
kissed it. Lord Rosebery kissed her face. 

That was all. That was the whole story. 
The Lords and Commons, the princes and 

230 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

privy councillors, the ambassadors and all the 
greatnesses and littlenesses of England trooped 
out of the gray abbey into Parliament Square, 
where the assembled people of London were 
still standing, silent and motionless. 

Gladstone's real funeral was out there in the 
open air. The common people were shut out 
of the abbey, but in their minds were the 
blind stirrings of the passion for equality in- 
voked by their great leader, a dim sense of 
that peaceful future he would have led Eng- 
land to, out of her bloody past. 

" And when this fiery web is spun, 
Her sentries shall descry afar, 
The young Republic like a sun 

Rise from these crimson seas of war." 



New York, August 8, 1885. 

A hot yellow stretch of newly levelled earth, 
a fringe of green boughs, a little hill, and, be- 
side it, a small brick vault with a gilded cross ; 
vast, murmuring multitudes covering the land- 
scape — and on a wooden platform, close to the 
empty tomb, the writer of these pages — then 
a young newspaper reporter), overwhelmed by 

231 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

the majesty of the impending burial of General 
Grant in the chief city of the nation he had 
saved. 

Below was the shining Hudson River, and, 
beyond, the rich green mountains sloping down 
to the steep gray palisades. Through the trees 
a fleet of warships with glistening masts lay in 
the stream, and white sails drifted up and down. 
White tents stood under the green boughs on 
the brow of the river bank. 

Every hilltop was covered with the multitude. 
Men and boys climbed the trees and hung on 
the branches. Every valley swarmed with life. 
Every rock and every stump was fought for. 
Monstrous white, wooden stands rose from the 
level masses, and upon them were seated thou- 
sands and thousands of spectators. 

Away down the winding road up which the 
funeral cavalcade was to come were miles of 
men and women, hot, faint, and weary. Moun- 
tains and valleys of umbrellas rose and fell in all 
directions under the fierce blazing sun. 

Suddenly there was a crash, and the crowds 
reeled as the hills sent back the thunderous 
announcement of the warships that the dead 

232 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

conqueror was coming up from the black-hung, 
breathless streets of New York. Clouds of 
cannon, smoke whirled up from the burning 
decks and the streaming pennants danced in 
the rigging. All other sounds were swallowed 
up as sheets of fire and smoke burst from the 
black gun-ports. 

After a few moments the crowds down the 
roadway moved convulsively, and as they swept 
backward a line of mounted policemen ^galloped 
past. Behind them came General Hancock, in 
an open carriage, at the head of his staff. A 
billow of gold lace and white and scarlet plumes 
rolled after him into the hot square of levelled 
earth. In the midst of it could be seen General 
Gordon, of Georgia, who was left for dead on 
the field by Sheridan's cavalry, and General 
Fitzhugh Lee, the Southern cavalryman'. 
Slowly they rode past the tomb, and halted 
their horses on the hill beyond, under a clump 
of trees, a brilliant patch of color. General 
Hancock got out of his carriage and walked 
into the brick vault, where he stood leaning 
upon his sword for a long time beside an empty 
steel casket. 

233 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Along the road came the regular troops at a 
swinging march. Artillery, cavalry, marines, 
and bluejackets moved up to the hill on the right 
of the tomb. Bugles sounded from all sides, 
the steady tramp of feet shook the earth, furled 
banners stood out of the ranks at all angles; 
steel flashed and brass shone. Miles and miles 
of soldiers and sailors poured around the hill. 
The swaying, heaving stretches of armed men 
grew more gorgeously brilliant as the colors 
mingled, and the sunlight sparkled on thousands 
of bayonets. 

Magnificently caparisoned horses, with hand- 
some gold-slashed officers, swept about the yel- 
low earth in front of the tomb. The glitter of 
steel in rising and falling ranks, and the moving 
masses of colored plumes and gold embroideries 
intensified the splendor of the scene. Waves of 
color swam before the eyes. 

The dull roar of the cannons on the river, the 
hoarse clamor of the distant bells of the city 
churches, the mournful confusion of dirges 
played by military bands far and near, the 
shrieking of a thousand steam whistles, the 
harsh clashing of arms, and the noise of gal- 

234 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

loping horses' feet — these were the sounds 
that swelled on the summer air as the victor 
of the greatest war in history approached his 
grave. It was as if the voices of a hundred 
battlefields had gathered in the throat of the 
whirlwind. 

Near the tomb stood General Hancock, sur- 
rounded by the principal officials of New York. 
A poor negro approached and took off his hat. 
The general waved his soldiers back from the 
door, and the negro entered the shadowy vault 
humbly, reverently. There were tears in his 
eyes. 

Now was heard the distant roll of drums, 
and instantly the bayonet-lined square yawned 
with excitement. Horses and riders, flags and 
banners, were grouped in front of the close 
ranks of blue and yellow and scarlet and 
white that fell back and back with ripples of 
bayonets until the eye could see no farther. 
Nearer and nearer came the sound of the 
drums, and the lines of bayonets became 
straight and rigid. 

Under a moving cloud of dust a line of car- 
riages came in view. They were the pall- 

235 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

bearers — the generals of the Northern and 
Southern armies. As the carriages entered 
the shining, brilliant square, the pall-bearers 
alighted and stood for a moment motionless. 
The great multitude watched them with emo- 
tion. General Sherman gave his arm to Gen- 
eral Johnston ; General Sheridan gave his arm 
to General Buckner. Then a hush fell upon 
the scene as the soldiers who fought each 
other twenty years before walked arm in arm 
to the tomb. A spirit of softness began to 
steal into the place. Through the air swelled 
a rich, sad chorus from somewhere under the 
hill, and slowly a great, swaying, plumed dark- 
ness came into view, with a dark blue square 
of musicians in front and lines of bayonets on 
either side. 

It was the funeral car. Great, deep chords 
of music swelled from every side, and all the 
troops presented arms. As the car drew 
nearer the multitude uncovered. The older 
men were crying. A few white-haired vet- 
erans knelt in the hot sand and bowed their 
heads. Still on the river the crash of the 
cannons made the air tremble. Rank after 

236 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

rank of soldiers wheeled into the road behind 
the tomb and joined the silent, shining mass of 
color that covered the northern hill. The long 
line of black horses that drew the car seemed to 
creep. 

Then out of a quarter of a mile of car- 
riages came President Cleveland, Vice Presi- 
dent Hendricks, and a host of governors, 
senators, generals, representatives, and men 
famous in every walk of life. Colonel Fred- 
erick Grant came with wife, and behind him 
were his brothers Jesse and Ulysses, with their 
wives and children. Little Julia Grant carried 
a wreath bearing in purple the single word 
" Grandpapa." Nellie, the toddling brown- 
haired favorite grandchild of the great soldier, 
held a tiny sheaf of wheat. The two chil- 
dren seemed to be bewildered by the splendor 
of the spectacle. 

There was a pause. Then the white-faced 
guard of the Grand Army ascended the black 
steps of the car and lifted the purple casket. 
They bore it to the ground, and laid it in the 
waiting brown shell with tenderness while the 
bands played solemn dirges. 

237 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Now the scene became majestic. On either 
side of the fallen commander stood the pall- 
bearers. Sherman and Sheridan looked into 
the eyes of Johnston and of Buckner. John- 
ston's venerable face trembled with emotion, and 
Buckner folded his arms upon his broad chest, 
while the sun beat hotly down upon his snowy 
head. A few feet away, former President Hayes 
and former President Arthur stood together. 

No pen could touch the depth of that spec- 
tacle. The history of a wonderful quarter of a 
century was represented there. Whole legis- 
latures from widely separated states were 
mingled together. Men without whose names 
the history of America cannot be written, 
watched the great soldiers of the North and 
South reunited over the corpse of the foremost 
warrior of the continent. 

Beyond the bareheaded crowd of officials 
were the glittering troops, and in the river the 
warships still thundering their salutes. Over- 
head the bright summer sky. The band at the 
tomb played a sweet, plaintive psalm, and away 
over the hills came the chanting of other bands 
mingled with the steady beating of drums. 

238 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Then a long line of veterans, white and 
black, scarred and lame, feeble and strong, 
filed past the tomb dipping their tattered battle- 
flags. A new sound of thunderous artillery 
was heard as the army artillery belched forth 
the presidential salute. 

And all around it was the silent bareheaded 
multitude, countlessly stretching out until its 
lines were lost in the blurred distance. 

The Grand Army men drew closer to the 
body of their old comrade, and began their rites 
for the dead. 

"God of Battles!" cried the commander, 
" Father of all ! amidst this mournful assem- 
blage we seek Thee with whom there is no 
death." The rest was a confused murmur end- 
ing in a loud "Amen." A wreath of evergreen 
was laid upon the purple casket, a spray of 
white flowers was cast beside it, and last of all, 
a crown of laurels. 

Then a bugler played an army call, and all 
was silence. Stern old Bishop Harris advanced 
and read for a few minutes under the shade of an 
umbrella. Parson Newman, Grant's pastor, re- 
peated a portion of the Methodist burial service. 

239 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

The end approached. A regular army trum- 
peter strode forward to the foot of the purple 
casket and began to play " Lights Out," the last 
call of the camp. As the sweet notes swelled 
forth, a tear rolled down the bugler's face, and 
the music faltered for a moment. Sherman's 
head fell upon his breast, and he cried like a 
child. Sheridan covered his face with his hand, 
and tears stood in Johnston's eyes. The stern 
lines of Buckner's countenance broke, and he 
trembled ; but still the bugler blew his plaintive 
call for ears that were deaf, and when he ceased 
the multitude was in tears. 

Peace, silent soldier ! Johnston and Sher- 
man are friends to-day. Sheridan and Buckner 
have shaken hands. The grim face of Gordon 
looks down from yonder hill in sorrow. War 
in thy hand, but peace in thy mouth! 

Colonel Grant and his family moved to the 
casket. The children threw their flowers on it 
and crept backward. Poor little ones ! They 
hardly seemed to realize their loss as they clung 
to their parents and listened to the throbbing 
music while the body was lifted up and borne 
into the tomb. 

240 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

The door of the little vault closed with a clash ; 
the key was turned and handed to General 
Hancock. 

General Johnston looked around at the crowd, 
but could not see a familiar face. Then he 
walked slowly to the only friend he seemed to 
know, and leaned upon the shoulder of General 
Sherman. General Buckner shook hands with 
General Hancock. Johnston lifted up Grant's 
favorite grandchild and kissed her before the 
crowd. 

Away they went from the shadow of the tomb 
together. Not as of old, but softly, tenderly, 
lovingly. Oh blue ! Oh gray ! 

The Seventh Regiment turned about and 
faced the river, and three volleys of smoke and 
flame swept over the steep bank. The Twenty- 
second Regiment turned about and fired three 
volleys more. The guard was mounted, the 
dark crowds moved, the cannons were silent, 
the bands were hushed, and the bells ceased 
tolling. The tomb of Grant was now the shrine 
of a reunited nation. The last lingering bitter- 
ness of the Civil War had vanished. 



241 



CHAPTER XII 

A Talk with Kossuth 

IN old Turin, where the rough Alps are flung 
against the sky around the cradle of Italian 
liberty, I found Louis Kossuth in the twi- 
light of his life. The once emancipator of 
Hungary sat before a table in a large bare room 
with a rug around his legs to protect them from 
the winter draughts, and a black silk skullcap on 
his snowy head. Books and papers were scat- 
tered about him. A bedraggled bird fluttered 
restlessly in its wooden cage in a sunny corner. 
A furled and faded flag was the only note of 
color in the room. 

Nearly a quarter of a century had passed since 
Victor Emanuel and Cavour had invited the un- 
successful Washington of Hungary to live in 
Italy. Here the man who uncrowned the Em- 
peror of Austria and drove the mighty Metter- 
nich from power had sat year in and year out, 
speaking with few outside of his household, 

242 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

watching the driftings of nations, marking the 
rocks in the way, and reading and writing pro- 
digiously. 

He had lived to see all his idols shattered, all 
but that great republic across the Atlantic Ocean, 
which greeted him like a hero and honored his 
defeated flag when Europe closed its doors to 
him. But even in his exile, with the weight of 
eighty-eight years upon him, he still earned his 
own living by the pen, scorning all assistance, al- 
though offered even by the royal master of Italy. 

A strongly built man with a broad forehead 
framed in curling white hair, earnest blue eyes, 
a firm mouth, and a hoary, untrimmed beard that 
almost touched his deep, full chest; yet there 
was a suggestion of old sorrows in his gentle 
face. 

" You see a man without a country," he said, 
as he welcomed me and bade me be seated. 
" Yes, it is a fact ; Louis Kossuth is an alien in 
his native land. Ten years ago a law was 
passed providing that any Hungarian who failed 
to appear before a representative of the Austrian 
crown and declare his allegiance within ten 
years, should lose his nationality. That time 

243 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

expired two weeks ago, but see ! " — he pointed 
to a heap of parchment scrolls on the uncarpeted 
floor — "eighty-three cities of Hungary have 
already conferred honorary citizenship on me. 
So the American newpapers want to invade 
the sepulchre of the old man who was foolish 
enough to dream of liberty in the heart of mo- 
narchical Europe ? " The blue eyes twinkled. 
"They want to know what I think of the 
German Emperor's international congress for the 
settlement of the question of capital and labor ? 
Well, I don't think much of it." 

The man whose army was once the hinge of 
Europe drew the rug about his knees and 
pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles up on his 
forehead, as he settled back in the well-worn 
easy-chair. 

" The German Emperor's words are only 
words," he said. " But he is a young man, and 
he is no doubt sincere, for it has been the hered- 
itary policy of the Hohenzollern princes to found 
their power upon the masses of the people, 
rather than upon an aristocracy. However, 
congresses of nations do not amount to much, 
and congresses of kings are not to be trusted. 

244 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Kings take little interest in the affairs of the 
common people, except when they happen to 
coincide with their own plans. 

" As for the present sovereigns of Europe, 
their personal interests are so antagonistic that 
it will be impossible for them to agree on the 
labor question, even if it were solvable. Mon- 
archies, to exist in the present time, must extend 
themselves, and no king can set any limit on his 
power such as an international compact regula- 
ting the relation between capital and labor. 

" Two ideas are advanced by the German 
Emperor. One is that the nominal hours of 
labor shall be fixed by law ; the other is that 
workingmen shall participate in the arbitration 
of all labor questions. Already the principle of 
industrial arbitration is in partial operation, both 
in England and America. But the scheme for 
regulating the hours of labor throughout the 
world is no more practicable than a common 
system of popular education for all countries. 
Differences of temperament, of physique, and of 
capacity, added to differences of surroundings 
and climate, create a barrier that cannot be 
levelled." 

245 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

The old leader shook his head and wagged 
his forefinger as Italians do when they dissent. 

" It must be clear to a statesman who has 
eyes that the social-industrial question over- 
shadows all others," he said. "The human 
race is sick of a malady that defies cure. The 
progress of civilization has given to the great 
mass of the people desires which were once 
confined to the few, and each workingman 
to-day regards as necessaries what his prede- 
cessors considered luxuries. That is a fact 
which the political doctors do not seem to be 
able to recognize. They ignore the multiplying 
tastes and appetites which make the standard 
of the basis of life a changeable thing. 

" The so-called state socialism will not cure 
the sickness from which society is suffering. 
An equal division of property or of labor will 
be followed in time by an unequal possession 
of property and an unequal distribution of 
labor. The weak will always go down before 
the strong. It has always been so in my time, 
and it always will be so. 

" Monarchy will not cure the malady. Mon- 
archy is going down all over the world, and 

246 




Louis Kossuth 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

republicanism is going up. The monarchical 
principle is not extending itself, while the 
principle of republicanism is rapidly gaining 
ground. The bloodless change of Brazil into 
a republic shows that. History proves that 
when one system ceases to extend itself and 
an opposing system keeps on growing, the con- 
tracting system is bound to be displaced. 

" But republicanism will not cure the malady 
either, for you have in America the nearest 
possible approach to a real republic, with an 
enfranchised democracy, free education, and 
popular institutions — and the social-industrial 
sickness is there too, increasing with your 
wealth, with your education, and with your 
liberty. There seems to be no remedy." 

Kossuth drew himself out of the chair and 
sat upon the table. 

" Meanwhile," he said, with a smile, "the 
earth will continue to revolve, and some day 
the present population may be swept from its 
surface, and a new race, capable of a new civili- 
zation, may appear. A cataclysm offers the 
only hope of a solution." 

"That is a black doctrine to come from a 

247 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

man who once preached the gospel of hope 
to Europe," I suggested. 

" Yes ; but I have lived a long time, and I 
know more now than I used to know. Time 
is a stern teacher, and a true one. This ap- 
peal for an international system of labor 
regulations" — and the old man slipped back 
into his chair again — " is simply the reasser- 
rion of the ancient doctrine that government 
must meddle in everything, help everything, 
and control everything. The idea is discredited 
by history and by the present condition of 
the working people. It will not do. There 
must be more scope for man ; the individual 
must have room to develop. If the people 
cannot help themselves, governments are power- 
less to help them. 

" Much of the poverty of Europe is due to 
the expense involved in large standing armies. 
They will not disappear until the monarchs, with 
their personal ambitions, disappear. Europe 
is slowly approaching the verge of a vast con- 
flict; it is inevitable. Nothing can avert it. 
The only cause for surprise is that war has 
not already begun. 

248 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

" Now see how this curse of overgrown 
armies came upon Europe." Kossuth pressed 
his thumbs together as though he held the 
problem between them. " When Poland in her 
dying agony called to the world for help, those 
who espoused her cause were laughed at as 
idealists and sentimentalists. What did the 
world care about the liberties of the Poles ? 
What did it matter whether the little kingdom 
was divided up among the great powers or not ? 
Well, let us see what that injustice and that 
indifference to the rights of a weak nation 
have brought to Europe ; let us trace the pun- 
ishment from the crime. The importation of 
negro slaves into America finally resulted in 
a great civil war in which nearly half a million 
men died, and imposed a gigantic war debt on 
the United States, the interest of which must 
be paid by many generations. As Emerson 
says, ' the dice of God are always loaded.' 
The downfall of Poland gave the Czar a win- 
dow overlooking Europe. Russia turned her 
eyes toward Constantinople. The Czar became 
ambitious in European affairs. The Russian 
movement toward Constantinople and the Medi- 

249 



ON THE GREAT HIGH W AY 

terranean Sea threatened to upset the balance 
of power in Europe. It was seen when the 
Czar invaded the Sultan's dominions that Rus- 
sian pan-slavism would soon stretch around 
Austria an arm strong enough to crush that 
heterogeneous and naturally weak empire. The 
Germans dreaded such an event, for that would 
bring the Russian power on two frontiers of 
their territory. And so the Triple Alliance 
was formed; Italy joining Austria and Ger- 
many because of her fear of France. All 
hope of relieving Europe of the curse of 
militarism disappeared. Armies grew greater 
each year. France allied herself to Russia. 
Each combination of nations watched the other 
with jealous hatred. More expensive weapons 
were invented. The war taxes multiplied. To- 
day the situation of the people who have to 
pay for all this is almost intolerable. 

" But if we had succeeded in maintaining the 
independence of Hungary" — the venerable 
face was radiant with the thought — " our first 
act would have been to go to the assistance of 
Poland and reestablish her government. That 
would have been followed by a Danube alli- 

250 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

ance of small states, united only for common 
defence, each preserving its separate indepen- 
dence. This would have given Europe a buffer 
between her frontiers and Russia. It would 
have settled the Eastern question. 

" Hungary was crushed because she got no 
outside help. Washington at Valley Forge 
acknowledged that he was hors de combat, and 
France went to his rescue. Where would Wel- 
lington have been but for the support of Teu- 
tonic arms ? But Hungary will yet be free. 
The Hungarians have preserved their nation- 
ality for a thousand years. They deserve 
liberty, and some day, somehow, they will get 
it. 

" I look around me here in Italy and feel 
that she is safe. The Italians deserve a great 
and happy future. They have been true, so 
long and through so many bitter trials, to the 
principle of Italian unification. When the 
thread of patriotic conspiracy fell from one 
man's hands on the scaffold, there was always 
another to take it up. The Vatican casts a 
shadow on the throne of Italy, but it is a 
small shadow. Had the College of Cardinals 

251 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

been adroit enough to have elected to St. Peter's 
chair a member of the Royal House of Italy 
— King Humbert's brother, for instance — they 
might have changed the situation. But the 
Papal kingdom is a thing of the past, and no 
one understands that better than the present 
Pope. As a great writer has said, 'The tem- 
poral sovereignty of the Pope is the dead 
body of the Holy Roman Empire sitting 
crowned upon the grave thereof.' 

" England is a waning power. She is liv- 
ing on the capital accumulated in "the past, and 
is rapidly using it up. Canada and Australia 
are sure to be separated from the mother coun- 
try, and not a drop of blood will be shed to re- 
tain them. There will always remain ties of 
language and similarities of institutions that 
will encourage intercommerce and be mutually 
profitable. The two colonies have ceased to 
be a source of strength to England from a 
material standpoint. India is her great treas- 
ure-house. Had Lord Beaconsfield lived and 
carried out his plan of using Indian troops in 
Europe, England would be to-day a mighty 
force. 

252 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

"Your country is the one power that is 
steadily gaining strength. Your greatest dan- 
ger is your wealth. When nations become 
very rich they lose their energy and gradually 
drift away from their moral ideals. But if 
the experiment of self-government does not suc- 
ceed in the United States, it cannot be success- 
ful anywhere. The American republic started 
under conditions never equalled in history. It 
had an intelligent, hardy, virtuous citizenship, 
loyal and homogeneous. It had an almost vir- 
gin continent, abounding in natural wealth. It 
had the experience of other nations for a 
guide. It was not embarrassed by an aristoc- 
racy, or by pretenders to a throne, or by an 
ancient system of vested rights. It was pro- 
tected from European invasion by three thou- 
sand miles of salt water. That -was the 
beginning, but what will the end be? When 
your men grow rich, and you have a leisure 
class, will they be satisfied with the plain 
ways of a democratic republic ? Yet, God for- 
bid that harm should come to the United 
States, the hope of mankind in the future ! " 

When I rose to go, Kossuth went to the door 

253 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

with me, walking slowly and with some effort. 
He drew the rug about his legs, and shivered 
when the wintry air touched him. As he stood 
there with bowed head and trembling limbs, he 
was a picture of noble old age. 

" I suppose," he said, " that when you were 
instructed to interview me, you were surprised 
to know that Kossuth was still alive ? Well, 
I ought to have died years ago, when my work 
was finished. I am ashamed to be using the 
air that belongs to more useful creatures." 

He said this with an air of profound sadness. 

"Your work finished?" I said. "It will 
never be finished while men live." And I 
quoted Smollett's lines : — 

" Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 
Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye, 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky." 

" Ah ! " sighed the old man, " I am tired of 
the storms. If I could choose my place in 
nature, I would choose to be the dew, falling 
noiselessly, trampled on by man and beast, 
unnoticed and unappreciated, but still silently 
blessing and fructifying the earth." 

254 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

I repeated these words to Count Tolstoy, in 
Russia, a few months later. He was silent for 
a moment ; then he said, — 

" I would much prefer to be a man, and love 
men." 



255 



CHAPTER XIII 

The Czar on his Knees 

ON that dark, stormy day when the 
Czar's English nurse died in the 
Winter Palace, I was in St. Petersburg, 
and I remember well how the wet snow fell 
from the blotched sky, and the wind whistled 
up the frozen Neva. 

Wherever I went in Russia there was always 
present in my mind the figure of Alexander 
III., as I once saw him riding at the head of 
his cuirassiers — an arrogant giant on a great 
black horse, towering above his soldiers, the 
incarnation of brute force, splendid and terrible. 
But I was yet to see the human nature hidden 
under that glittering helmet and breastplate. 

The Czar was with his ministers when a 
messenger went to the Anitchkoff Palace to 
tell him that his nurse was dead and that her 
last words were of him. 

Through the dull, harsh nature of Alexander 

256 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

there ran one stream of tenderness — love for 
his English nurse, " Kitty," she who had 
mothered his boyhood. A more unimaginative 
monarch never sat on a throne. Lacking the 
sensitiveness of his father, he governed Russia 
pitilessly, although with a sense of honesty. 
But in the sternest hours of his iron reign his 
sluggish heart melted at the sound of one 
voice. 

And she was dead. The autocrat of all the 
Russias went alone through the storm to the 
darkened room in the Winter Palace where 
his dead nurse lay awaiting the grave with 
peaceful upturned face and folded hands. The 
giant threw himself upon her body with a great 
cry, and, as he laid his head upon the cold 
bosom, the attendants withdrew and left him 
alone with his woe. 

He lifted the frail form in his arms and car- 
ried it tenderly to the coffin. No hands should 
touch her but his. Then he arranged flowers 
about her head and kissed the still, white face 
until it was wet with his tears. For a long time 
he knelt there with bowed head, and when he 
came out of the hushed chamber there was a 

257 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

look in his face that no one had ever seen there 
before. 

A whisper went about St. Petersburg that 
the Czar had ordered that none but himself and 
his brothers should keep watch over " Kitty's " 
coffin. 

For the next two days the dashboards of the 
sleighs in the Russian capital dripped with 
slush. It rained and snowed alternately. 
While I sat one afternoon in the American Le- 
gation overlooking the river, with Mr. Charles 
Emory Smith, the American minister, — look- 
ing through wreaths of tobacco smoke at a rude 
family of Laplanders, exhibiting their reindeer 
on the ice of the Neva, — I heard more about 
the burly Czar and his sweet-faced English 
nurse. 

Alexander was the second son; and, while 
his elder brother, the heir to the throne, was 
alive, the big, awkward boy was neglected. ' 
Little attention was paid to his mind. He was 
trained as a soldier, so that he might some day 
command the Imperial Guard. Even then he 
was the favorite child of the English nurse, and 
his sullen nature responded to her touch. 

258 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

' While the favored brother prepared himself 
to reign over Russia, and studied the principles 
of law and government, Alexander studied the 
soldier's task — to destroy. He was known as 
the most powerful Russian of his age. His 
strength and his dull, overbearing manner in- 
spired fear. None of his companions dared to 
challenge that rough temper and heavy hand. 
He was the natural soldier — silent, domineer- 
ing, fearless ; quick to obey established authority, 
and harsh in command. In time he grew to be 
a giant, and it was said that he could kill a man 
by a single blow of his fist. 

But to the dear little Englishwoman who 
taught him how to walk and how to pray, he 
was always " Sarsha," — the Russian diminutive 
of Alexander, — and to him she was always 
" Kitty." Even when he came home from the 
Turkish war, a successful general, he sought 
her out before all others. Lifting her up in his 
arms, he looked down into the pale face that 
had smiled upon him through all the loneliness 
of his gloomy boyhood, and then he passion- 
ately kissed her. 

" What do you think of me now, Kitty ? " 

259 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

he cried. " Have I satisfied you ? Are you 
ashamed of your boy ? " 

"Ashamed? Ah!" — and she leaned her 
head on his mighty breast, shedding tears for 
pure joy — "you are a brave soldier, Sarsha, 
and a good son of your father. God be 
praised for all our victories ! I am proud 
of you." 

The burly soldier gave her a hug that she 
often spoke about, for even then he was known 
as one of the strongest men in Europe, and 
his hug was not always a joke. So great 
was the strength of his hands that he one 
day rolled up a silver plate and gave it as a 
souvenir to the German Emperor, who had 
begged him to display his muscles. 

And when he learned, long after his 
brother's death, that his father had been 
assassinated, he went straight to his nurse 
and laid his head upon her shoulder like a 
child. 

" Oh, Kitty ! dear Kitty ! " he sobbed, " they 
have killed my father ! They have killed my 
father!" 

She put her arm about his neck and talked 

260 



ON THE GREAT HTGHWAY 

to him in the old nursery tone, and presently 
he was comforted. 

"Your Majesty must trust in God," she 
said gently. 

" Your Majesty ? " — and he stroked her head 
tenderly — "I am not an Emperor to you, 
Kitty. I am simply Sarsha, your boy Sarsha ; 
always Sarsha. And you are Kitty, always, 
always Kitty. I will have it so, and I have 
now the right to command, you know." 

Ah ! would that her influence had followed 
and controlled him in the cruel years that 
were to come ! How many homes might 
have been saved from ruin, how many lives 
might have been spared, how many hearts 
remained unbroken ! Would that she had 
stood beside him, with her simple virtues and 
quick sympathy, when Loris Melikoff appealed 
to him to grant a constitution to the people 
of Russia ! The history of Europe might have 
been changed. But it was not to be. 

There was little to be known about the life of 
the Czar's nurse. She was a quiet, shy woman, 
rarely seen outside of the magnificent Winter 
Palace where she lived — a patient, soft-voiced 

261 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

subject of Queen Victoria, modifying and subdu- 
ing the hard nature of the man who lived to be her 
country's most dreaded enemy. But although 
her name is not enrolled among the Czar's ad- 
visers, she was one of the hidden forces that 
swayed the man whose lightest breath meant 
war or peace for the whole world. How many 
such influences lie concealed along the track of 
human progress, beyond the ken of history ? 
How many loving women have spun their kind- 
ness and mercy into the mantles of majesty, 
unwept and unsung of the world ? 

While I sat there looking out over the dis- 
mal snows of the Neva and listening to tales 
of the autocrat and his nurse, there was a 
sudden stir in the street below the window, 
and excited men and women began to swarm 
along the edges of the road. A mounted 
cossack in a streaming crimson mantle galloped 
along the way, shouting directions to the police- 
men who kept the crowd back. His swarthy 
face was full of emotion. Evidently something 
extraordinary was about to happen. Even the 
Laps on the river ice left their reindeer and 
ran to join the multitude. 

262 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Just then the chasseur of the legation — a 
blond whiskerando in gold lace and gorgeous 
plumes — hurried into the room, in a state of 
agitation unprecedented in the history of that 
august person, and saluted the American 
minister. 

" Your Excellency," he exclaimed, with rolling 
eyes and upraised hands, " the Emperor is 
coming along the quay on foot. He is actually 
walking behind the hearse. It is true. He 
will not ride. He is on foot — the Emperor 
himself." 

Then turning to me : — 

" Now you can see for yourself whether the 
Czar can go out among his people or not." 

I fear that the desire to see the curious 
spectacle made me forget my host. I rushed 
downstairs only to find that the crowd in the 
street had grown so great that nothing could 
be seen from the rear but a flashing crucifix 
swaying above the murmuring people and the 
fluttering plumes of the hearse. 

"You must go in a sleigh to another street," 
said the chasseur. " You must not miss the 
sight, or you will never believe it." He seemed 

263 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

to be overcome with anxiety lest the American 
writer should lose the chance of seeing the 
master of the mighty Russian Empire trudging 
along on foot behind the coffin of his nurse. 

"Hurry! please hurry!" he urged. "The 
Emperor carried the coffin to the hearse with 
his own hands. You will see, to-day, what a 
true man sits on the throne of Russia." 

Calling an istvostchik, I jumped into his 
battered sleigh and promised him two rubles 
if he would get me around through a back 
street in time to see the head of the cortege. 

Presently I stood in the crowd on the slush- 
covered quay and saw the solemn procession 
pass slowly on. First came the bearded Greek 
priest and the crucifix ; and behind him walked 
several black-robed men carrying lighted lan- 
terns on poles. Then came the little hearse. 
Behind it strode Alexander and his two brothers 
through the sodden snow, while the crowd 
made the sign of the cross. A few knelt down 
and touched the snow with their foreheads in 
the Eastern fashion. 

The Czar towered above his brothers, a 
heavy gray coat buttoned closely about his 

264 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

giant figure, and his cloak flapping in the cold 
wind. A turban of gray astrakhan wool with a 
white aigrette covered his great head, and spurs 
jingled on his heavy boots. The three brothers 
walked side by side, the Czar in the middle. 
His face was pale, and his eyes showed that he 
had been weeping. Several times he seemed 
to stumble. I stood within ten feet of him, 
and could see that he was profoundly moved. 
Not once did he look away from the hearse 
which was carrying his English foster-mother 
to the grave. 

Behind the Czar walked a group of Kitty's 
personal friends, mostly women, and among 
them — so some one said — several members of 
the imperial family. After them came a line 
of carriages with the well-known imperial 
livery. Every carriage was empty. The 
mourners were all on foot. A few mounted 
soldiers closed up the train. 

Not a note of pomp violated the simple 
pathos of the scene. The autocrat was simply 
a man walking humbly and reverently after the 
corpse of the serene little woman who loved 
him. The sound of a tolling bell came faintly 

265 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

through the white drizzle. The Czar bowed 
his head. My rough istvostchik leaped from 
his seat and, kneeling in the snow, began to 
pray. A hoarse murmur ran from mouth to 
mouth : " The Emperor ! " " Sarsha ! " " It 
is he! It is he!" But the sorrowful monarch 
looked neither to the right nor the left. 
The blurred heavens grew darker, and the 
wind sifted the snow over the plumed hearse. 
The voice of the priest could be heard. 

Oh, little gray English nurse ! God has 
given it to some women to level all things by 
love ! 

It was a long way to the cemetery, but the 
Czar walked the whole distance. He sat in 
a pew of the Church of England for the first 
time, and watched the coffin at the altar rail- 
ing. 

" I am the Resurrection and the Life. He 
that believeth in Me, though he were dead, 
yet shall he live ; and he that liveth and 
believeth in Me, shall never die." 

The autocrat was on his knees, crying like 
a child. Kitty! Kitty! dost thou hear? 
dost thou see? Tears! tears for thee, Kitty! 

266 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

I saw him again just before he entered the 
cemetery, his great face wet with weeping, 
and his head bowed. And while they lowered 
the coffin into a gap in the frozen ground, the 
keeper of the cemetery laid a piece of carpet 
— the only thing of luxury in his house — 
at the feet of his imperial lord, and the Czar 
sank to his knees. 

"Catherine, servant of God — " 

The Czar could go no farther. He crouched 
there with the snow falling on his bare head 
until the grave was filled up. As he turned 
away he looked back at the little mound and 
crossed himself. The lamp that lit his early 
feet was extinguished. 

" Two lives that once part are as ships that divide 
When, moment on moment, there rushes between 

The one and the other, a sea ; — 
Ah, never can fall from the days that have been 
A gleam on the years that shall be. 11 



267 



CHAPTER XIV 

Greeks on the Verge of War 

IN Athens for news — Athens, which slew 
Socrates, built the Parthenon, and began 
the policy of democracy centuries before 
Christ was born. But the crumbling ruins of 
the age of Perikles were of little interest to 
those who were in Athens when Greece defied 
Turkey and the six great powers of Europe 
for the sake of the Christians in the island of 
Crete, bravely fighting against their Turkish 
oppressors. The commonplace little capital 
of Greece, which lies among the fallen 
temples of the gods, echoed with the shout- 
ings of Greeks hurrying from the remot- 
est parts of the earth to fight under the 
Danish king placed on the Greek throne by 
united Europe. A spectacle of national folly, 
perhaps, but imbued with a depth of senti- 
ment rarely felt in these sluggish days of 
commercial Christianity. 

268 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Not only were the Greeks in the cities 
arming themselves for the approaching con- 
flict, but the goatherds and swineherds poured 
down from the classic mountains, rifles in 
hand — Parnassus, Helikon, Pelion, Ossa — 
and the shepherds of old Thermopylae aban- 
doned their flocks on the rough hillsides and 
marched over the graves of heroes in the 
ancient pass where Leonidas died, shrieking 
defiance to Islam and the concert of the 
powers. And the railway trains that rattled 
over the plains of Thessaly, where Persephone 
gathered flowers, were assembling an army at 
Larissa in sight of the snowy summits of 
Olympus and the rocky Vale of Tempe. 

What a strange commingling of bloods was 
in that sudden flaming of national passion ; 
old Greeks, new Greeks, Slavs, and Albanians 
blended together by ages of intermarriage. 
In the midst of it all, King George, the Dane, 
commanded to peace by the great nations 
which placed the crown upon his head, and 
urged to war by the mighty Pan-Hellenic 
society, whose secret organizations controlled 
the army and public sentiment. 

269 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

It was only when I talked to the King that 
I fully understood the heartlessness and brutal- 
ity of the concerted powers — that august coun- 
cil of the most powerful military states which 
determines the destinies of Europe and Asia ; 
that Christless, conscienceless power which fired 
on the Greek flag in Crete and allowed a Mo- 
hammedan army to ravage Thessaly. 

There was something that made the blood 
run cold in the sight of that silent Turkish host 
in Macedonia, supported by the Christian na- 
tions of Europe, waiting for their officers to 
give the signal for an advance ; while on the 
other side of the mountain range that divided 
the two armies, the Greek herdsmen marched 
down the mountain sides in their goat-hair 
cloaks, chanting ancient war songs, and danc- 
ing the pyrrhic, as they advanced over the 
blooming Thessalian fields to fight for Greece 
and Christianity. 

It is the fashion of modern writers to assume 
that the international policy of the world has 
reached a high plane of sentiment, and that the 
old dominion of brute force has given place to 
a generous chivalry based upon moral feeling. 

270 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

But the year 1897 discredits this theory. The 
King of Greece intervened to prevent Turkey 
from landing an army of extermination in 
Crete. The situation in the island was appall- 
ing. Driven into insurrection by the murder- 
ous cruelty of the Turkish soldiery, the Cretans 
had almost won their independence, and the 
Mohammedan troops were confined practically 
to four coast towns. Twenty thousand Greek 
subjects were involved in this struggle. More 
than three-quarters of the population of Crete 
were Christians, related by blood, language, 
religion, and habit to the Greek nation. Even 
the great powers were forced to take notice of 
the infamies perpetrated in the island by Turk- 
ish officials, and had threatened the Sultan, who 
gave combined Europe permission to establish 
such reforms in Crete as they might think 
necessary. But the great powers did nothing. 
The egoism of international control having been 
flattered by the submission of the Sultan, the 
dominant statesmen of Europe congratulated 
each other upon the diplomatic victory, and 
allowed the awful conflict in Crete to go on. 
For nine months more Turk and Cretan con- 

271 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

tinued to burn and slay. Gradually the little 
army of liberty drove the Turks before it. The 
independence of Crete was in sight. Then the 
Sultan ordered a new army to sail to the island 
and annihilate the Christian forces. The great 
powers had the right to prevent the threatened 
massacre, but refused to act. The King of 
Greece begged the governments of Europe to 
use their influence and authority, but in vain. It 
was not convenient. The concert of the powers 
— which had witnessed unmoved the wholesale 
massacre of Christians in Armenia — was not 
to have its tranquillity disturbed because a few 
thousand Christians were to be slaughtered in 
Crete. 

Christian Europe was too busy with tariffs 
and other commercial matters to waste any 
thought or effort on the struggle of an ancient 
people against merciless oppression. Europe 
had spoken once to the Sultan, and the Sultan 
had replied politely. What more could be 
expected ? These Greeks were a troublesome 
people — always making a row about freedom 
and human rights generally, and interfering 
with the comfort of the European concert. So 

272 




King George of Greece 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

London, and Paris, and St. Petersburg, and Ber- 
lin, and Vienna, and Rome set their faces hard 
against the Greeks ; and even the voice of Glad- 
stone, on his death-bed, failed to arouse the 
conscience of the nations. 

It was then that King George of Greece sent 
a torpedo flotilla, in command of his son Prince 
George, — the hero of the nation, — to prevent 
any Turkish force from landing in Crete, and 
at the same time he despatched a small army, 
under the command of Colonel Vassos, to 
occupy the island in the name of Greece. 
There is not a more gallant incident in history. 

Instantly the statesmanship of the great 
powers was wide awake. The German Em- 
peror stormed. The Czar raved. London and 
Paris roared with anger. Rome and Vienna 
joined in the outburst of indignation. The 
concert of the powers had been insulted. 
Greece had dared to go to the rescue of the 
Christian army in Crete without the permission 
of Europe. 

There was no languor now. An international 
fleet of warships surrounded Crete, and Colonel 
Vassos was informed that his army would be 

273 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

starved out unless he surrendered. All the 
mighty forces of the nations which had re- 
fused to be aroused by the death-cries of 
Christianity in Crete were put into action to 
punish the contumacious Greeks, for liberty 
and justice must ever wait on the convenience 
of the European ministries. The spirit of the 
threatened Greek commander in Crete was illus- 
trated by his refusal to yield even to combined 
Europe, unless his king should order him to 
do so, and by this cabled message, which he 
sent to a New York newspaper : — 

" Americans well know the Holy Alliance of 
old which attempted to enslave the republics 
of America. A modern Holy Alliance is 
attempting to enslave Cretans under a govern- 
ment beyond the pale of modern civilization. 
I am sure the sympathy of Americans will be 
with the efforts of Greece to rescue her own 
people. Vassos." 

Meanwhile the pickets of the Turkish army 
in Macedonia and the Greek army in Thessaly 
stood in the Mylouna Pass within three hun- 
dred feet of each other. A single shot would 

274 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

have produced war at any hour of the day or 
night. 

There was much to see in that old country 
of the Greeks. The dapper little military 
dandies in the cafes blew dainty wreaths of 
cigarette smoke, and talked about the conquest 
of Constantinople. The students of the uni- 
versity made speeches on the steps of the 
palace, menacing the leagued nations of Europe 
with the righteous anger of the Greek race. 
The leaders of each political party denounced 
the leaders of all other parties as liars and 
scoundrels, but all agreed that Greece was 
capable of vanquishing the Turks even in the 
teeth of hostile Europe. Featherheads ! They 
bore the great traditions of their past as a 
dilettante of the Paris boulevards might stagger 
under the armor of Charlemagne. 

It was not among the people of the cities 
that the substantial patriotism of Greece was 
to be seen. Other nations have had this ex- 
perience, but the Greeks in their mightiest 
days were a people of independent and mili- 
tant cities. I heard the multitudes of Athens 
scream for war and sweep through the streets 

275 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

half-crazed behind their garlanded flags. But 
in the country districts I saw the Greeks of 
Marathon and Thermopylae, the men who 
made Greece the mistress of the world — sturdy 
shepherds, willing to fight in their goatskins 
and content with a crust of bread and a cup 
of water ; pure lovers of the soil for its own 
sake, uncouth, innocent of politics, and full of 
faith in their king. 

"Ah, there is no people like the Greeks!" 
said King George, when I interviewed him in 
the palace. " They have come from the remot- 
est parts of the earth to serve their country. 
The old blood is in their veins." 

The slender, graceful Dane stood in the middle 
of a vast chamber, dressed in a modest blue 
uniform. 

"The men who are marching past the palace 
at this moment are Greeks from the Caucasus, 
whose ancestors have lived there for more than 
a century. Seven hundred of them have re- 
turned to Greece at their own expense to fight 
for her. Where can you find another nation 
like the Greeks ? They are poor, their country 
is small, and their army is a mere fragment, 

276 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAT 

yet they are willing to face the whole of Europe 
in arms." 

There was a look of sadness in the pale face 
of the unhappy monarch. His nephew, the 
Emperor of Russia, had turned against him. 
His brother-in-law, the future king of England, 
had refused to say a word in his favor. The 
guns of the nations which had placed the 
sceptre in his hands menaced his army in Crete. 
The Turkish forces which threatened the frontier 
of Thessaly had behind them the moral sup- 
port of every powerful Christian state. Yet 
the Greeks threatened to rise against a king who 
dared to yield to the powers. 

" There is nothing more cruel or insensible to 
humane sentiment than the European concert," 
he said. " I talk to the newspapers now in the 
hope of moving the hearts of civilized peoples, 
because the combined governments are deaf to 
the voice of justice. The world has never be- 
fore witnessed such a spectacle as six powerful 
nations, acting in the name of Christian civiliza- 
tion, surrounding an island with their warships, 
and starving a noble Christian people, whose 
only offence is that they have fought for liberty. 

277 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

While doing this, these nations are feeding and 
upholding the savage Turkish oppressors." 

The lines in the King's face grew hard, his 
big brown eyes flashed, the veins stood out with 
painful distinctness on his temples, his lip trem- 
bled, and his voice shook with emotion. 

" But the Greeks are unafraid. They are 
prepared to make any sacrifice, and no loss can be 
too great for them. They will fight barefooted, 
they will fight without food, they will fight even 
without hope ; and if this conflict with Turkey 
begins, they will not cease until they have 
achieved victory, or the last fighting man has 
fallen." 

How the infuriate crowds pressed around 
the plain little modern palace, with its guard of 
mountain warriors in starched white kilts ! How 
the young orators were held up on the shoulders 
of their friends to shriek grandiose speeches 
against the great powers and dizzily rant about 
the past glories of Greece ! How Greek priests 
in black hoods waved flags on the palace steps 
before the eyes of the frenzied patriots ! And 
Greeks returned from France and Italy and 
America, and every land under the sun joined in 

278 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

that bewildering clamor for war. Even while 
a dead Greek prelate was borne through the 
streets uncoffined — after the laws of Solon — 
the cry for blood was in the air. 

Yet who could help loving that warm-hearted, 
childlike people, and pitying them as they 
swarmed in the very shadows of the Acropolis ? 
— for the Greeks of old cast their spears into 
the sky only to have them return covered with 
blood. But there were no gods now to warn 
them of impending fate. The heart of ancient 
Greece was there in that rabble, if not her con- 
quering strength. It was hard to think that 
these little men in modern clothes were the 
descendants of the heroes who made the Greek 
name feared throughout the world, that this was 
the Athens which inspired Byron. And it was 
all the more impressive to a writer fresh from 
vigorous young America, rising into world-wide 
power, to hear the passionate cries of an im- 
potent but proud people on the very ground 
where their ancestors won unperishable renown, 
in sight of the supreme monuments of their 
departed greatness. Here Phidias reared the 
matchless statue of Athena, of which not a 

279 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

fragment remained. Here art and literature 
flourished, and the mind and soul of man burst 
into blossom. Here Solon lived, and Perikles 
and Socrates and Plato and Demosthenes. 
Every foot of the ground had been trampled by 
the feet of generations of conquerors. To this 
triumphant seat of learning and valor thousands 
of pilgrims came to study art and philosophy 
and war. Here were laid the enduring founda- 
tions of civilization. 

The old blood was working in those shrill 
crowds, the old passion was there, but the 
old power was gone. Athens was the joke 
of European courts and the sorrow of all true 
lovers of the Greeks. 

A Greek troop-ship crowded with army 
recruits carried me from the Piraeus to Volo, 
the naval base of the King's army in Thessaly. 
As we touched various ports on the way, hun- 
dreds of herdsmen wearing sheepskins and 
goatskins came on board with their rifles. 
Soon the decks were packed to their utmost 
capacity. Educated Athenians who had enter- 
tained me in the fashionable hotels only two 
days before, lay on the rough boards among 

280 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

herders of swine. No Greek shrank from the 
uniform of a private soldier. There was a 
light-hearted enthusiasm in this scene of pic- 
turesque squalor that surprised me. Aristocrat 
and peasant met on equal terms. Each new 
band of fighting herdsmen was welcomed with 
shouts of joy. Now and then some excited 
mountaineer would discharge his rifle in the air, 
whereat all would sing defiance to the Turks. 
At the ancient city of Chalkis the armed shep- 
herds formed circles on the shore and danced 
the pyrrhic to a slow chorus, that well remem- 
bered preparation of the Greeks for battle. 

In the beautiful Bay of Eubcea lay the tor- 
pedo squadron commanded by Prince George, 
the idol of the Greek people. I boarded his 
flagship, the Canaris, with Mr. Horton, the 
American consul at Athens. The prince was 
a blond, blue-eyed giant. 

"We will fight the whole world, if we must," 
he said ; " but we will never make a cowardly 
surrender to a Mohammedan power. As for 
me, I am a sailor. I have nothing to do with 
politics. I obey the King. The King's word 
is my only law." 

281 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Little did I think then that I was looking 
upon the man who was to be chosen by Europe 
as the reigning Prince of Crete. As we sailed 
away on the troop-ship into the Gulf of Atlanta 
we could see the sailor prince towering above his 
crew like a young war god, and as he tossed his 
cap in the air there burst from the squadron a 
fierce roar of farewell that could be heard on 
the distant shore, beyond which loomed the 
august white summit of Mount Parnassus. 

After landing at Volo we travelled by train 
over the plain of Thessaly to Larissa, where 
twenty thousand Greek soldiers were massed. 
It was a scene of excitement. Here officers 
were drilling the rough shepherds and goat- 
herds, there Prince Nicholas was exercising 
his battery of artillery ; smart troops marched 
and countermarched in every direction ; groups 
of conspirators from Macedonia and Epirus 
noisily discussed the approaching war in the 
streets; jaunty officers in new uniforms drank 
wine in the restaurants, and loudly boasted of 
coming victories ; the kilted mountain soldiers 
danced the pyrrhic in their camps — grim bal- 
let, presaging death. 

282 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

In the distance could be seen the mountains 
that separated the two armies, and to the 
east of them, the majestic white peaks of 
Olympus, rising beyond the wonderful Vale 
of Tempe. On the other side of the moun- 
tains, not more than twenty miles from La- 
rissa, was assembled the army of Edhem 
Pasha, the Turkish commander-in-chief in 
Macedonia. 

The gray-haired Greek general who com- 
manded the forces at Larissa assured me that 
the Turkish army was a mere ragged mob, 
badly armed and insubordinate. The Turks 
were deserting in large numbers, and Edhem 
Pasha was in despair. The moment the 
Greek army crossed the frontier tens of thou- 
sands of armed Christians would rise against 
the Sultan. The conquest of Macedonia would 
be a matter of two or three weeks. 

Mounted on a half-starved pony, and accom- 
panied by a photographer, I rode into the 
famous Mylouna Pass, through which the Turk- 
ish army entered Thessaly a few weeks later. 
The pass was guarded by two hundred white- 
skirted mountaineers who spent most of their 

283 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

time dancing the pyrrhic and singing war 
songs. The officer in command, a stalwart, 
black-bearded Greek, declared that all the 
Turks in the Ottoman Empire could not force 
the pass. 

" But you have no artillery in here," I said. 

" Artillery is not necessary," he said. " The 
pass is narrow and difficult even for the feet 
of mountaineers. There are two hundred of 
us — all Greeks. My brother was killed by 
the Turks in the next pass only a few years 
ago. That is why I am in command here. I 
will avenge him." 

His black eyes glittered with hatred. His 
nostrils spread as he spoke, and his breast rose. 

"You don't know the Greeks," he said. 
"You are an American. But these hills know 
them. Stay here with me when the fight be- 
gins, and you will see what Greeks are like in 
battle." 

A few weeks afterward the Turks buried him 
and most of his command almost at the very 
spot where we stood. 

We pushed on through the age-worn and 
broken paths in the pass until we reached the 

284 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

highest point, which was the frontier. The 
Turkish and Greek sentries paced slowly 
before their guard-houses within speaking dis- 
tance. The moment we crossed the line that 
divided Greece from Turkey we found our- 
selves prisoners, with a stout Mohammedan 
soldier at each bridle rein. In this fashion we 
descended over the rocks to the Macedonian 
plain and rode to Elassona. Our escort was 
very rough, and refused to allow us to speak 
to the peasants we met. 

Once in the camp of the Turkish field-mar- 
shal, all was changed. A vast army was spread 
out on the northern edge of the plain, and white 
tents dotted the hillside as far as the eye could 
see. There was a gravity and silence about it 
all that meant much to a man accustomed to 
soldiers in the field. The contrast to the Greek 
camp was startling. There was no singing or 
dancing, no shouting, no wine-drinking, and no 
boasting. I never saw finer troops, nor more 
perfect order in an army. 

Edhem Pasha was absent from his head- 
quarters and I was received by the next in 
command, Memdouh Pasha, the redoubtable 

285 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

soldier who assisted Osman Pasha in the de- 
fence of Plevna. He was a short, square- 
headed little man, with a close-cropped beard 
and honest eyes. He reminded me strongly 
of General Grant. When I presented myself, 
he introduced the Turkish war correspondent 
of a Constantinople newspaper, who spoke 
French and acted as our interpreter. 

The Turkish general had food set before 
me — for hospitality is a law of the Mohamme- 
dan church — and presently, when I had eaten, 
he curled his legs under him on a rough divan, 
lit a cigarette, offered one to me, and blew 
rings of smoke in the air. At that moment I 
saw my photographer's camera seized by a sol- 
dier ; but Memdouh, by whose orders the thing 
was done, looked pleasantly into my eyes. 

" How did you leave the Greeks ? " he said. 
"What were they doing when you came 
away ? " 

" Singing and dancing and preparing to 
fight." 

Memdouh blew another ring into the air, 
and watched it ascending to the ceiling. There 
was a look of deep peace in his eyes. 

286 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

"To fight?" 

"Yes." 

" Do you think they can fight ? " 

"They have given some convincing proofs 
of their power to fight in the past." 

Another ring of smoke. How intently the 
soldier regarded the trembling circles as they 
floated upward ! 

" The past ! The Greeks of the past are all 
dead. The people you have been visiting are 
light-headed. They are degenerates. If the 
great powers let us alone, we will settle our 
difficulties with Greece forever. They will 
conquer and govern us, or we will conquer 
and govern them. The Greeks are singing of 
war, but wait till the first battle opens, and 
see how they will sing then. We are ready 
to advance at a moment's notice. The spirit 
of Islam is in our army, and you know what 
that means. The newspapers and amateur 
politicians of Europe speak of Turkey as a 
sick nation ; but you have never heard a sol- 
dier who has faced our infantry in battle in- 
dulge in that sort of talk." 

The general settled himself more cosily on 

287 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

his divan, and rolled another cigarette. There 
was something very impressive about his quiet, 
confident manner. 

" You had better stay with us if the war 
begins," he suggested. " It will be safer in 
our lines, and you will see how good, fighting 
Turks handle themselves." 

" I am afraid that I would never get my 
despatches through to my newspaper. Tur- 
key is not benevolently disposed toward the 
press." 

Memdouh laughed and showed his teeth. 
" You are a close observer," he said. " The 
Greeks like to be advertised, and therefore 
they will help you to get your news to your 
journal. Well, you can stay with them if you 
prefer, but you will have to describe a defeat." 

" I have never been with a defeated army 
yet." 

" Then you are about to enjoy that experi- 
ence." 

A walk through the Turkish camp was con- 
vincing. The vast columns of infantry, the 
wheeling squadrons of Circasian cavalry, the 
long lines of Krupp field-guns, the immense 

288 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

stores of ammunition and food, the abundance 
of horses, the splendidly organized signal ser- 
vice, with its field telegraph equipment, and 
the noiseless order of the place spoke plainly 
enough. The Turks had little to say. They 
are a naturally reticent and sober people. 
They bore themselves like trained soldiers. 
There was nothing of theatrical sentiment to 
be seen. All was plain, useful, and business- 
like. I asked an artillery officer how the 
Turkish people felt about the approaching 
struggle. He read me an extract from a letter 
written to him by his brother, a schoolboy : — 

" I can bear the news of your death on the 
field better than I can bear the news of a 
Turkish retreat. If you must choose be- 
tween death and flight, dear brother, turn 
your face to Heaven." 

The officer showed great emotion as he 
folded the little sheet of paper and thrust it 
back into his pocket. 

" If Turkish boys can write like that," he 
said, "you can imagine how Turkish men 
feel." 

The arrival of a London correspondent in 

280 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

Elassona sent a chill down my back. I had 
been the first correspondent to cross the 
frontier and enter the Turkish lines. That 
fact in itself was an important thing for news- 
paper headlines. But now I was face to face 
with a rival who would undoubtedly claim the 
credit unless I reached the telegraph station 
at Larissa before him. Mounting my tired 
pony I started back to Greece. The English- 
man saw the point, and also made for the 
frontier. He was mounted on a good cavalry 
horse and easily distanced me on the plain, 
but when we reached the Mylouna Pass he 
was compelled to dismount and lead his horse 
over the masses of broken rocks while my 
ragged pony moved over the debris with the 
skill of a mountain goat. The sun set, but 
the starlight was brilliant, and I passed my 
rival at the frontier. 

The ride down the other side of the pass at 
night was a thrilling experience. When the 
foot of the pass was reached, the pony fell to 
the ground exhausted. 

No other horse was to be had. My rival 
was moving somewhere behind me. The mud 

290 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

was deep, and twelve miles stretched between 
me and Larissa. I started to walk across the 
Thessalian plain alone. For an hour I plodded 
in the sticky road, listening to the howling of 
the savage shepherd dogs that roamed the 
darkness in all directions. Gradually the dogs 
drew nearer, snapping and snarling as they 
approached. Presently I found myself sur- 
rounded by the hungry brutes, and could see 
them running on all sides. I tried to set fire 
to the grass, but it was too wet. The dogs 
were within twenty feet of me. Then I heard 
the sound of footsteps and of voices. The 
dogs retreated. My blood ran cold. Was 
my rival about to find me in this ridiculous 
position and pass me ? I started to run 
toward Larissa, but before I had gone two 
hundred feet I was overtaken by two Greek 
soldiers in starched skirts, who had been sent 
by the officer of the guard in the pass to pro- 
tect me on my journey. I tried to find out if 
my rival had emerged from the mountains, 
but they could understand nothing but Greek. 
" Englishman ! Ingleskee ! Angleskee ! " I 
yelled in despair, making pantomime descrip- 

291 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

tions of my rival's beard and eyeglasses. They 
shook their heads and laughed. 

The walk to Tyrnavos gave me a new in- 
sight into the Greek character. As we moved 
forward my companions rapturously watched 
the stars which shone with startling bright- 
ness through the clear air. Nowhere in the 
world do the stars seem as close to the earth 
as in Greece. The atmosphere is singularly 
pure. And several times the soldier on my 
right touched my shoulder and silently pointed 
to the beautiful Greek sky. I could not under- 
stand his hushed sentences, but I knew he was 
telling me that the stars belonged to Greece. 

At Tyrnavos we got a carriage, and I reached 
Larissa at one o'clock in the morning, splashed 
with mud from head to foot. My rival had 
found a telephone at the frontier, and had sent 
a message for London ; but he was not present 
to plead his cause, and the sight of my travel- 
stained garments softened the heart of the tele- 
graph superintendent so that the wire, which 
was conveying messages into King George's 
sleeping room, was interrupted long enough 
to send my message to America. 

292 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

The Turks forced the Mylouna Pass and 
swept Thessaly clean. Everybody knows the 
story of that international tragedy. Neither 
King George nor his generals would believe it 
possible that Mohammedan soldiery could con- 
quer Christian Greece. The combined powers 
of Europe gave their countenance to the great 
crime, trampling justice and sentiment into the 
dust. And when the bloody deed was done, 
when Greece was broken and humbled, when 
the vanity of the powers was satisfied in Greek 
blood, Europe acknowledged the justice of the 
Greek cause by making Prince George the 
reigning Prince of Crete. 

"The concert of Europe cares nothing for 
principles or human life when its dignity is 
at stake," said King George, when I saw him 
again in Athens. 



293 



CHAPTER XV 

Sitting Bull 

THE dirty brown blanket that hung 
on the shoulders of Sitting Bull re- 
vealed a figure of impressive strength, 
and the snaky boldness of the dark eyes that 
shone under a low, slanting forehead bespoke the 
master mind of the fighting savages of North 
America — priest, doctor, politician, woodsman, 
warrior. 

There was an inexpressible dignity in the 
strong face of the old chieftain, as he stood 
there on the prairie, with one moccasined foot 
thrown lightly forward, while the weight of his 
sinewy body rested solidly on the other foot. 
The stained feather which fluttered in his 
braided black hair, the red and yellow paint 
smeared on his cheeks, and the gaudy girdle 
of porcupine quills and beads seemed trivial 
and out of harmony with the eagle nose, 
straight, powerful mouth, and the general sense 

294 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

of reserved power, which expressed the born 
commander of men. 

There he stood — the mightiest personality 
of a dying people whose camp-fires were burn- 
ing in America before Solomon built the temple 
in Jerusalem — native America incarnate, with 
knife and tomahawk and pipe, facing a strip- 
ling writer from a New York newspaper, and 
telling the simple story of his retreating race. 
To measure the progress of civilized man, it 
is only necessary to meet a savage like Sitting 
Bull, to whom the names of Homer, Socrates, 
Moses, Galileo, Bacon, Shakespeare, Dante, 
Michael Angelo, Beethoven, Alexander, Crom- 
well, and Napoleon were meaningless sounds. 
Imagine a man born on the American continent 
who never heard of Columbus or Washington 
or Lincoln ! Not a man whose ancestry was 
debased and stunned by ages of slavery, but 
the descendant of free people, the heir of a 
continent teeming with riches. 

This man was born thousands of years after 
Athens and Alexandria and Rome were built ; 
yet he .had roamed over the rich prairies, and 
the soil, his greatest heritage, had never spoken 

295 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

to him of the treasures germinating in its 
depths. Listening for the sounds of approach- 
ing conflict, he had not heard the voices of the 
unborn wheat and corn that were yet to con- 
quer him and his ways. He was able to move 
a whole nation to battle, but a compass or a 
watch or a telegraph instrument or a newspaper 
was a mystery that baffled his imagination. 
The scribblings of the correspondent, which 
he regarded with disdain, suggested nothing 
to his mind of the irresistible power of publicity, 
that conqueror of armies and dynasties and 
civilizations. To him it was mere foolishness. 
But there was one thing which he had 
learned, a thing that linked him with the 
greatest minds of all the ages — the value of 
human liberty. Before that simple prize the 
wonders of science, literature, and art shrank 
into insignificance. It has been my lot to meet 
and talk with most of the great men of my own 
time, and I have observed that after all was 
said about methods and policies, the supreme 
goal of all sane effort was freedom. The 
noblest minds in all human history have finally 
come to Sitting Bull's rude creed. The painted 

296 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

nomad, ignorant of Luther, Bruce, Hampden, 
Washington, Kosciuszko or Toussaint, knew 
the supreme lesson of history — compared to 
which other human knowledge is unimportant 
— that nothing can compensate men for the 
loss of liberty, and that everything else can be 
endured but that. 

I had paddled down the muddy waters of the 
Missouri with Paul Boynton, the adventurous 
traveller, who spent his time floating along the 
rivers of the world in an inflated rubber suit. 
The great Sioux war was over, and I had sat 
in the peace council at Fort Yates, where three 
thousand surrendered Indians were camped on 
the plain, and heard the great fighting chiefs 
turn orators. The story of Custer's last charge 
and his death was on every tongue. When 
Sitting Bull marched across the British frontier 
and yielded his warriors as prisoners of war, 
he was told that President Garfield would re- 
ceive him in the White House at Washington, 
and hear from his own lips the grievances of 
his people. But Garfield had fallen, and was in 
his grave. President Arthur refused to allow 
the savage who was responsible for the slaughter 

297 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

of Custer and his men to go to Washington. 
Sitting Bull was sullen and revengeful. Warned 
by signs of discontent and restlessness among 
the young fighting men, the military authorities 
removed the angry old chief and his family to 
Fort Randall, hundreds of miles farther down 
the Missouri. There I found him with army 
pickets guarding his little camp of thirty-two 
tepees, around which Indian braves, squaws, 
and almost naked children sprawled in the 
sunlight. 

Following Sitting Bull to his tepee, I crawled 
after him through the covered hole which 
served as a door. We were joined by Allison, 
the famous white army scout, who acted as in- 
terpreter, and by a number of Indians, who 
entered at the request of the old chief. We 
seated ourselves on the ground around a heap 
of burning twigs, Sitting Bull sitting at the 
head of the circle. He threw aside his blanket, 
under which he wore a fringed shirt of deerskin. 
The two wives of the household shook hands 
with us, giggled, and paraded several half -nude 
and very dirty children, the heirs of the family. 

There was silence in the tepee. Sitting Bull 

298 




Sitting Bull 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

laid his tomahawk and knife on the ground, and 
began to fill his long pipe with tobacco and 
killikinick, the dried scrapings of willow bark. 
No one spoke. The chief looked at the fire, 
and took no notice of us until he had puffed at 
his pipe for a few moments. Then the pipe 
was passed around, and as each man smoked, 
Sitting Bull watched his face closely. When 
the ceremony was ended, the old leader gazed 
at the pink and violet flames flickering among 
the broken fagots, and pursed his lips. The 
wrinkles on his forehead grew deeper, and a 
look of shrewdness came into his dark face. 
Aboriginal America was about to utter its 
thoughts to the millions of men and women 
who brought gunpowder and Christianity from 
the continents beyond the seas. The chief put 
his thumbs together, as though he were com- 
paring them — an odd trick that I have noticed 
in other Sioux politicians — and began. 

" I have lived a long time, and I have seen a 
great deal, and I have always had a reason for 
everything I have done," he said, in a deep, low 
voice — still staring thoughtfully into the fire. 
The listening Indians nodded their heads. 

299 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

4 ' Every act of my life has had an object in 
view, and no man can say that I have neglected 
facts or failed to think." 

He took a long pull at his pipe, and as the 
smoke glided from his lips he watched it mus- 
ingly. 

" I am one of the last chiefs of the indepen- 
dent Sioux nation," he said; " and the place I 
hold among my people was held by my ances- 
tors before me. If I had no place in the world, 
I would not be here, and the fact of my exist- 
ence entitles me to exercise any influence I 
possess. I am satisfied that I was brought into 
this life for a purpose ; otherwise, why am I 
here?" 

O ye men of books ! Trace back that 
thought to the oldest writers until your search- 
ings end in the mists of Mesopotamia and Asia, 
and see if there be anything in the ancients or 
moderns with a more tidal sweep of logic than 
the utterance of this unlettered North American 
savage. 

" This land belongs to us, for the Great Spirit 
gave it to us when he put us here. We were 
free to come and go, and to live in our own 

300 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

way. But white men, who belong to another 
land, have come upon us, and are forcing us to 
live according to their ideas. That is an injus- 
tice ; we have never dreamed of making white 
men live as we live. 

"White men like to dig in the ground for 
their food. My people prefer to hunt the 
buffalo as their fathers did. White men like to 
stay in one place. My people want to move 
their tepees here and there to the different 
hunting grounds. The life of white men is 
slavery. They are prisoners in towns or farms. 
The life my people want is a life of freedom. 
I have seen nothing that a white man has, 
houses or railways or clothing or food, that is as 
good as the right to move in the open country, 
and live in our own fashion. Why has our 
blood been shed by your soldiers ? " 

Sitting Bull drew a square on the ground 
with his thumb nail. The Indians craned their 
necks to see what he was doing. 

" There ! " he said. " Your soldiers made a 
mark like that in our country, and said that 
we must live there. They fed us well, and 
sent their doctors to heal our sick. They said 

301 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

that we should live without having to work. 
But they told us that we must go only so far 
in this direction, and only so far in that direc- 
tion. They gave us meat, but they took away 
our liberty. The white men had many things 
that we wanted, but we could see that they did 
not have the one thing we liked best, — free- 
dom. I would rather live in a tepee and go 
without meat when game is scarce than give 
up my privileges as a free Indian, even though 
I could have all that white men have. We 
marched across the lines of our reservation, 
and the soldiers followed us. They attacked 
our village, and we killed them all. What 
would you do if your home was attacked ? 
You would stand up like a brave man and 
defend it. That is our story. I have 
spoken." 

The old chief filled his pipe and passed 
it around. Then we crawled out into the sun- 
light again. As I was about to leave, Sitting 
Bull approached me. 

" Have you a dollar ? " he asked. 

"I have." 

" I would like to have it." 

302 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

When the silver coin was produced the 
chief thrust it into the bosom of his shirt. 

" Have you another dollar ? " 

" Certainly." 

" I would like to have that, too." 

I gave him a second coin, which also dis- 
appeared in his shirt. 

" Tobacco ? " 

A bag of fragrant birdseye followed the 
money. 

" Ugh ! " said the old man. 

When I got into my canoe to resume my 
voyage down the Missouri, the chief came to 
the water's edge to see me off. He was 
dressed with some show of rough splendor, 
and was accompanied by his two fighting 
nephews. As I looked back I could see him 
standing on the gravel shore, his counte- 
nance as void of emotion as a bronze mask. 
It was the face of old America, unreadable 
in victory or defeat. 

A man like Sitting Bull brings one face to 
face with original human nature. There was 
cruelty and cunning in him, but like Lord 
Bacon, the greatest philosopher since Plato, 

303 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

he was the product of his ancestry and sur- 
roundings. Bacon confessed, as Lord Chief 
Justice of England, that he had accepted 
bribes, but he asked his country to judge him 
by the official usages of that time. Sitting 
Bull slew innocent men and women, but he 
could point to the moral standards of his race 
for justification. Like Phocion, who saved 
Greece from the Persians, the Sioux leader 
had fought for his race, but unlike Phocion, 
he had not sat at the feet of Plato and Di- 
ogenes. He was not poisoned and thrown on 
alien soil for burial when he counselled peace 
for safety's sake, but he drank of the hem- 
lock of defeat, and was killed in a brawl by a 
policeman. 



Before many days my little canoe reached 
Fort Hale, and the next day I rode with the 
post surgeon over the prairie to the Crow 
Creek Indian Agency. We pricked gayly 
along a narrow trail on nimble ponies, and the 
man of medicine led the way, occasionally 
bursting into song : — 

304 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

"Oh Jean Baptiste ! pourquoi ? 
Oh Jean Baptiste ! pourquoi ? 
Oh Jean Baptiste ! pourquoi you grease 
My little dog's nose with tar ? " 

It was a scene of solemn grandeur and still- 
ness. Above was the cloudless autumn sky 
and the blazing sun, and below was the sea- 
like plain, with great scarlet splotches of bul- 
berries glowing against the brown buffalo 
grass. 

The surgeon was in high spirits, and made 
his shaggy pony prance while he talked about 
the prison-like life of a frontier fort. How 
often I have seen these men of science plod- 
ding along in the dull routine of garrison 
duty, and chafing against the narrow restraints 
of military discipline, only to stand some day 
on the firing line among the dead and dying, 
seeking to save while all others seek to destroy, 
and without hope of glory ! 

Presently we could see signs of the Crow 
Creek Agency in the distance, and on the 
trail ahead a lonely figure moved on foot 
across the prairie. As we drew near I was 
surprised to see a tall girlish figure furnished 

305 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

forth in a silk dress, jaunty French bonnet, 
high-heeled shoes, and brown kid gloves. A 
daintier miss never trod the soil of that sav- 
age wilderness. As she tripped on before us 
we wondered what could have brought her 
there. 

When the surgeon spurred his animal to 
pass the stranger she turned her head. It 
was an Indian girl. The surgeon bared his 
head and reined in his pony. 

"Why, Zeewee ! " he said, "what a picture 
you make on the prairie ! What are you 
doing out here alone?" 

The girl smiled, and unconsciously put her 
little gloved hand to her bonnet to straighten 
it. It was a face of singular refinement, al- 
though not beautiful. The nose was straight, 
the mouth tenderly curved, the brow broad 
and comely, the eyes dark and expressive, 
the skin smooth and dusky, and the splendid 
black hair banded above the delicately veined 
temples. As her lips parted she showed teeth 
as white as snow. There was something pro- 
foundly sad in the expression of the fresh 
young countenance. 

306 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" I am working among my people," she said 
in a tremulous voice. 

" Poor Zeewee ! it must be hard on you," 
muttered the surgeon. 

" It is the will of God," said the Indian 
girl, simply. " I have been chosen, and I 
must go on to the end." 

We rode on in silence for a few moments, 
and when Zeewee was a dot in the distance 
behind us, I heard the story of a martyr of 
American civilization. 

It was the policy of the government to 
take the young children of Indian chiefs to 
academies in the East and, after educating 
them, send them back among their savage 
people as object lessons. Zeewee was the 
daughter of Don't-Know-How, a friendly chief. 
I saw her father's tepee. The Indian agent 
had allowed him to carry on a petty trading 
business, and some military wag had provided 
the chief's doorway with a sign inscribed 
" D. K. How, Trader." In her early child- 
hood Zeewee was taken from her parents and 
placed in the Hampton Institute, in far-away 
Virginia. 

307 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

In time the young Indian girl forgot the 
surroundings of her childhood. The filthy 
tepee, the wild dances, the painted braves, 
and the fearful nights on the frozen ground 
gradually faded from her mind. She remem- 
bered only that her father was a man of 
importance among his people, and that her 
mother loved her and moaned when she was 
taken away. 

As Zeewee grew up, her teachers exerted 
themselves to turn her mind from memories 
of the old life. It was a part of the govern- 
ment's scientific plan to divorce the children 
of the Indians from their past, and thus destroy 
any lingering influences which might in the 
future serve to wean them back to tribal bar- 
barism. All the sweet memories of home, 
which shine through the lives of other little 
ones, were ruthlessly eradicated. Too many 
Indians had gone back to their blankets after 
leaving the government schools. So, all that 
little Zeewee could do was to carry in her 
breast the vague consciousness that somewhere 
on her native plain there was a home to which 
she would one day return. From time to time 

308 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

she received messages from her father, who 
promised always that he would give a great 
feast to welcome her back. 

Slowly the Sioux maiden became an accom- 
plished young lady, with a smattering of Latin 
and music and art, and a love for the feminine 
things of civilization. She had romantic ideas 
about her race. As she read the story of 
Mexico, she dreamed that her people were 
like the gentle Aztecs. The tales of the Moors 
in Granada fired her imagination. Her heart 
thrilled with pride at the thought that the 
noble blood of Carthage or of the lost tribes of 
Israel might be flowing in her veins ; for history 
was full of arguments to prove that the Car- 
thaginians and the wandering Jews had reached 
the Western continent. Zeewee nursed this 
sentiment. She met and associated with edu- 
cated white girls, and the spirit of civilization 
grew bright and strong in her soul. Every 
vestige of the aboriginal instinct died out. 
She became as the daughters of the white 
race. 

Her father ? What was he like ? Tall and 
noble and gracious ? Her mother and sisters 

309 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

and brothers ? She tried to recall some im- 
pression of her home. Her father was a 
chief, a leader, a man of wisdom and author- 
ity. Her mother was the daughter of a chief. 
Her ancestors had distinguished themselves in 
battle and in council. Her kinsmen were all 
of chieftain blood. They would meet her in 
the ancestral home on the mighty prairies, 
and talk to her about the splendid deeds and 
lofty traditions of their tribe. 

Zeewee graduated with her class at the 
Hampton Institute. The time had come for 
her to go to her people. Years of study and 
association had developed in her a grace and 
dignity of manner rare even among the 
daughters of white men. Through the kind- 
ness of her Eastern friends, she was able to 
dress herself in the latest fashion. For hours 
she stood before her mirror arranging her 
little fineries, and wondering whether she was 
attired in a manner becoming the child of an 
ancient line of chieftains. Then she went by 
railway to Dakota, and crossed the plain to 
Crow Creek. 

They led her to the entrance of her father's 

310 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

tepee. She stooped and entered. One glance 
at the squalid group of savages crouching about 
the fire revealed the awful gulf that was fixed 
between her and her people. Her eyes filled 
with tears. 

" Father ! Mother ! " she cried passionately. 
"Speak to me ! " 

A chorus of grunts expressed the astonish- 
ment of the family. The old chief eyed the 
gloved and bonneted girl suspiciously. 

" My daughter weeps," he said. " Is she 
unhappy ? " 

"No! no! no!" wailed Zeewee, throwing 
herself upon her father's breast, "but I feel 
so strange here." 

The wrinkled mother looked at her daughter, 
and shrank back into her blanket. Zeewee 
turned to her brothers and sisters. They 
drew away timidly from the soft-voiced visitor, 
and stared at her silken skirt and gloves. 

With a sob the girl sank upon the earthen 
floor, stripped the gloves from her hands, 
tore the bonnet from her head, loosened her 
black hair, and shook it out upon her shoulders. 

" Brothers ! Sisters ! " she said gently. " I 

3ii 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

have come back to my own people, to live 
with you and die with you. Christ be my 
helper." 

That night she slept under a blanket with 
her youngest sister. They cried themselves 
to sleep in each other's arms — one because 
she was civilized, and the other because she 
was not. 

Thus began the silent martyrdom of Zeewee 
— agent of civilization. 



312 



CHAPTER XVI 

On the Firing Line in the Philippines 

THERE were days in hoary Manila, 
before the little brown men began to 
retreat over the hot rice fields and 
through the green bamboo jungles, when our 
army lay in the trenches around the scorching 
city, a semicircle of misery twenty miles long, 
harassed night and day by the watchful insur- 
gent sharpshooters — days of strain when a 
craven-hearted policy and a wooden-headed 
military censorship prevented the war corre- 
spondents in the Philippines from giving the 
American Congress and the American people 
a hint of the secrets of that strange scene. 

It was a time when the startled native 
looked with wondering eyes upon the flag 
that was borne across the Pacific as a promise 
of liberty ; when the race that had not yet 
learned to tuck its shirt inside of its trousers 

313 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

had at least learned to look to America as the 
great protagonist of human rights, and had 
eagerly copied its songs of freedom. Aguinaldo 
strutted among his generals at Malolos. 
Otis dawdled at his desk in Manila. The two 
armies faced each other and waited. No word 
of surrender from Malolos. No word of con- 
ciliation from Washington. The correspond- 
ents in the iron grip of the censor. 

Yet one afternoon the two peoples spoke to 
each other across the cruel barrier of race and 
language, and I, looking on, heard the voice in 
which age speaks to age. 

It was one of those spectacles in which the 
souls of men rise mysteriously into concord 
above the clamors and hatreds of war, touched 
by the central flame of universal brotherhood. 

The Kansas regiment occupied the trenches 
on the left of our line, and Colonel Funston, the 
gamecock of the army, had kept his men close 
to their work. It was a perilous position, for 
just beyond the screen of trees, on the other 
side of an open stretch of rice fields, was massed 
the main army of the Philippine Republic. 
The intrenchments of the enemy were so close 

314 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

that we could see them plainly, and the pale 
blue figures moving here and there in the 
edge of the woods. On the extreme left were 
advanced breastworks of sandbags to guard 
against a " night rush." Behind the Kansas 
line was a venerable church. The roof was 
shattered by shells from Dewey's fleet, the 
chancel rail was converted into a harness rack, 
and the side altar into a telegraph operator's 
table, the vast stone floor covered with beds of 
officers, and the sacred images roughly piled 
in a distant corner. In front of the church 
door a cloud of smoke arose from the cook's 
tent. 

The haggard Americans sat or walked in the 
trenches where they had slept for two weeks 
without relief. A few looked over the rough 
brown earthworks at the parched fields shim- 
mering in the fierce sunlight. The weary offi- 
cers walked up and down the line, scanning the 
enemy from time to time with their glasses. 
Occasionally a too venturesome man would 
attract the attention of the insurgents, and a 
volley of Mauser bullets would drive him to 
cover. 

315 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

An infantry band sent from the city to cheer 
our tired men lilted gayly in the rear. It was 
the first music that had been heard there since 
the outbreak of war between the United States 
and the Philippine Republic. Now and then 
a pair of soldiers would waltz to the music 
in the trench, crouching in fantastic attitudes 
to avoid the aim of the enemy's marksmen. A 
few converted their tin cups into drums, and 
beat time with their knives and forks. Then 
the music changed from gay to grave. At 
last the concert was ended and the band 
marched back to the city. 

Suddenly a strain of music was heard from 
the enemy's line — sweet, quavering chords 
that sounded strangely familiar. Instantly 
every man in the Kansas regiment was alert. 
There was a roar of laughter in the trenches. 
The imitative spirit of the Filipinos was the 
joke of the army. 

" By thunder ! " yelled a tall Kansan, " they 
can't even let us have a little music to ourselves. 
The niggers have brought their band to the 
front." 

" Wonder what in hell they're playing ? " 

316 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

cried another. " Bet it's the ' Aguinaldo 
March.' Listen ! " 

Across the brown stretch of dead rice came 
the solemn sound of the hymn, " Stand up for 
Jesus." 

" Nary a stand-up here, with nigger rifles 
pinted at us," roared the tall Kansan. 

"Invitation respectfully declined," shouted 
the other. 

" Better keep down, boys," said an officer, 
sharply. " It's a trick. They'll open fire in a 
minute. Don't show your heads." 

Still the sound of the stately tune came swell- 
ing through the air, now soft and tender, now 
loud and passionate. 

" Stand up ! stand up for Jesus, 
Ye soldiers of the cross ; 
Lift high His royal banner, 
It must not suffer loss." 

There was a sudden silence in the trenches. 
Memory was at work. It was a voice from 
home, a message from dear old Kansas, an echo 
of other days and gentler scenes. 

The music ceased. Every man listened. 
There was a hush in the air, and the descending 

317 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

sun cast long shadows in the field. Through 
the tangled masses of trees that hid the Philip- 
pine musicians, a few figures could be seen 
moving boldly out on the enemy's works. 

Then a beautiful thing happened. From the 
distant camp came a rolling throb of drums, and 
the insurgent band swung grandly into " The 
Star-spangled Banner." There was a moment 
of yawning surprise, and then the whole Kansas 
regiment, stretched out for nearly half a mile, 
leaped from the trenches and stood on top of the 
earthworks. Every soldier drew his heels to- 
gether, uncovered, and placed his hat over his 
left breast. It was the regulation salute to the 
national anthem. As the music rolled forth, 
clear, high, splendid, the Kansans straightened 
themselves and remained motionless while the 
enemy continued to play the one supreme psalm 
of America. The whole line was exposed. Not 
a man carried a weapon in his hand. Yet not 
a shot was fired. The Filipinos watched the 
bareheaded American regiment, and played on. 
It was one of those psychological moments when 
some profound sentiment unites thousands of 
hearts ; when the pentecostal spirit descends, and 

318 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

the passions of men are stilled in the presence 

of a common altar. 

" Oh say, does the star-spangled banner still wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? " 

What was it that stirred the insurgent Asiatics 
to play that anthem ? What was it that inspired 
a whole regiment to bare its breast to the enemy 
in order to salute the music ? What power held 
the forces of death in. leash while Kansan and 
Malay faced each other that burning day ? Why 
did the rugged men in khaki shed tears ? And 
when the anthem was done, and the splendid 
line still stood erect and uncovered on the breast- 
works, why did that roar of applause ascend 
from the Philippine camp ? 

Never was there a loftier scene on a field 
where men were met to shed each other's blood 
— a noble challenge, nobly met. 

When it was over there was an interval of 
silence, but as the light died out of the sky, and 
the stars appeared, the sound of rifles was heard 
again. 

" My heart was in my throat when I heern 
them play that," said the tall Kansan, as he took 
careful aim over the earthwork. 

319 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

I tried to cable a description of that event to 
my newspaper, but the dull military censor was 
stony-hearted. 

"That's not news," he said, "that's poetry — 
and poetry don't go." 



Darkness descended on the shrivelled rice 
fields and green thickets, and the three brigades 
of McArthur's division stretched out in irregular 
line, with the centre just in front of the venera- 
ble church of La Loma and its war-trampled 
graveyard ; a group of American officers took 
a last twilight look at the distant intrenchments 
of Aguinaldo's army from the top of the 
stone cemetery wall, at the side of which lay a 
ditchful of bones, leprous white, the relics of 
generations whose descendants had failed to pay 
rent for the grisly hospitality of graves. Inside 
of the massive church walls the nickering light 
of lanterns and candles fell on rows of tired sol- 
diers sprawled on the stone flooring — one stal- 
wart fellow snoring peacefully on the high altar 
itself — and on the surgeons preparing stretch- 
ers and bandages. In the stained and dusty 

320 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

sacristy General McArthur and his staff ate 
wedges of canned beef and hardtack off a 
wooden mantel. Everywhere signs of grim 
preparation for the advance of the whole divis- 
ion at daybreak toward Malolos, the insurgent 
capital — war correspondents examining their 
cameras, chatting with their field couriers, or 
laughing at the young woman correspondent 
who had just appeared, artillerymen carrying 
ammunition for their batteries, the confused 
sound of passing men and horses. It was to 
be steady fighting all the way to Malolos, for 
four rivers and scores of intrenched lines lay 
across the thirty miles between us and Aguin- 
aldo's seat of government, with twenty thousand 
or thirty thousand troops — so our prisoners 
said — against our one division. 

And yet the young woman persisted in stay- 
ing. She had come to see the battle open with 
the dawn, and nothing could induce her to go 
back to Manila. No one knew much about her 
except that she was from San Francisco, and 
was supposed to write occasionally for a Cali- 
fornia newspaper. Most of the officers had a 
nodding and some of them a speaking acquaint- 

321 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

ance with her. But no one could shake her in 
her determination to stay all night and watch 
the death-grapple in the morning. Hints were 
useless. There was no place for her to sleep — 
she found two chairs and stretched herself out 
on them. There was nothing for her to eat — 
she produced a sticky lump of chocolate and 
munched it. There might be a night attack by 
the enemy — she drew an army revolver from 
her pocket. The place was full of tropical fever 
— she brought forth some quinine pills, and took 
a sip of brandy from a dainty cut-glass flask. 

Then she shut her teeth hard together, closed 
her eyes, settled herself down on the two chairs, 
and ignored the indignant officers, who retreated 
for consultation. Her small white features were 
set. She was going to see that fight. 

It was a place haunted by memories of Span- 
ish monks and native conspiracy ; for the little 
white-shirted men who knelt at that shrine often 
carried knives sharpened for the throats of the 
friars. In the darkness around the church the 
soldiers moved like phantoms among their horses, 
and a neglected camp-fire made the shadows of 
the trees waver on the broken walls. The skulls 

322 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

and bones of the dishonored dead gleamed hid- 
eously in the trampled grass. 

A lieutenant approached the young woman, 
and touched her on the shoulder. She looked 
up without moving. Her ankles were crossed 
gracefully, her hands were clasped behind her 
slender neck, and her sailor hat was thrust defi- 
antly over her broad, smooth brow. 

" It will be a frightful sight," he said. " I hope 
you will go back to your hotel. This is no place 
for you. It is horrible to think of a woman look- 
ing at the slaughter of human beings. You can- 
not imagine how appalling it will be." 

She set her hat straight with a coquettish 
touch and smiled. 

"All the better copy for my paper," she 
answered, with a yawn that showed her pretty 
teeth. " Besides, it will be a new experience." 

" But the danger ? " 

" The only serious danger that confronts me 
is the danger that my paper may be beaten. 
That would be simply frightful." She drew 
her mouth up in a dainty moue, and stared 
absently into the night, as if she had forgotten 
the lieutenant. 

323 



ON THE GREAT HIGH W AY 

The officer made a gesture of despair. 

" Have you considered the chances of defeat, 
of capture ? " 

" Yes," said the young woman, languidly. " I 
have considered all, all, all. If I am captured, 
I will interview Aguinaldo. If I am killed, my 
paper will print my portrait and a melting ac- 
count of my death. You cannot frighten me 
away. I have come to stay." 

" But don't you see" — and he stamped his 
foot till the spurs jingled — " that you are a 
source of embarrassment to us all ; that we feel 
ourselves responsible for your safety ; that — " 

"Well, I like that!" remarked the young 
woman, sitting bolt upright, and tossing her 
little head back. " Who asked any one to be 
responsible for me ? " 

She stretched herself out on the chairs again, 
and closed her eyes. The lump of chocolate 
rolled from her lap to the ground. The lieu- 
tenant picked the clammy fragment up and 
held it out between his finger tips. 

" You — er — you dropped this thing," he said. 

The eyelids opened, and her dark eyes 
regarded the outstretched hand for a moment. 

324 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" You may keep it," she said, and closed 
her eyes again, with the shadow of a smile 
trembling about her mouth. 

With an indignant gesture, the lieutenant 
flung the chocolate against the cemetery wall, 
and strode back to his fellow officers. 

" It's no go," he said. " She's going to stay 
till the fight opens; she has the cheek of a — 
oh, damn her ! let somebody else try." 

At this point I was requested to use my in- 
fluence as a newspaper man to remove the 
young woman from the fighting front of the 
army. 

" Flatter her," suggested the lieutenant. 
" Lay it on thick — that generally catches a 
woman." 

"Tell her that her hair is coming out of 
curl," said a grizzled old captain. 

" And that the graveyard air will ruin her 
complexion," added the lieutenant. 

" Oh ! " said the young woman, when I ex- 
plained my mission. " So you would like me to 
retire and leave the news of the battle to you ? " 

" Really, nothing was farther from my 
thoughts than — " 

325 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" Oh, of course not. Tricks in all trades 
but ours. You wouldn't deceive a poor trust- 
ing girl, would you ? " 

She was really beautiful as she lay there in 
the half-light, mocking me, with her eyes half 
closed, and her jaunty hat knocked on one 
side of her head. 

"And you are not afraid to look upon the 
horrors of an actual battlefield, to see men 
blown limb from limb, perhaps?" 

" I am afraid of nothing but my newspaper 
rivals. Now, please leave me." 

She closed her eyes again, and pretended to 
sleep, but I could see that she was watching 
me between the soft lashes. 

" Infernal cat," growled the lieutenant, when 
I explained my failure. 

Just then we heard a gasp, followed by a 
scream. The young woman was standing on 
a chair, with her skirts drawn up, and a look 
of terror in her face. 

" Oh ! oh ! oh ! " she wailed. 

"What's the matter?" 

" Rats ! Two of them ! Big, hairy, black 
rats ! There they are now — oh ! oh ! " 

326 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

"Place is full of rats," said the lieutenant, 
eagerly. " Hundreds of them, thousands of them 
— insurgents used to live on them — tropical rats 
— graveyard rats — worst kind — they're poi- 
sonous — worse than snakes — much worse." 

" U-u-ugh ! " gulped the young woman. 

"There is still time to go back to Manila," 
I suggested. 

" If I could only get a horse," she said 
meekly. " I can't walk back. If I had a 
horse, I would, I, I " — oh woman ! how hard 
it is to yield! — "I think I would go at once." 

Ten minutes later we saw her ride out into 
the road, and turn her horse's head toward 
Manila. 

"Whew!" said the lieutenant; "don't women 
beat hell? — face a regiment, but run from a 
mouse." 



We were now in front of Malolos. Mc- 
Arthur's division had swept the army of the 
Philippine Republic backward for a week, and 
the stained and weary regiments were standing 
in the early morning twilight ready for the 
last charge. They had fought through bam- 

327 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

boo jungles, waded rivers and swamps, carried 
line after line of intrenchments, stormed forts, 
and tramped over the ashes of burning vil- 
lages, leaving their dead and wounded behind 
them. 

The seat of the rebel government was now 
before us, and we could see the roof of 
" Aguinaldo's palace" — a monastery attached 
to a church — over the green tree-tops. 

Right in front of our line was a formidable 
stretch of bomb-proof earthworks, with clear 
ground before them. This was to be the 
scene of the final conflict — the death-thrust 
of the war. 

Every source of information open to us 
pointed to one serious fact — twenty thousand 
armed Filipinos, led by the terrible little in- 
surgent president and his ablest generals, were 
in front of us. All the rollicking gayety that 
hitherto marked the advance of our forces had 
vanished. Each man seemed to feel that he 
was standing in the shadow of death. There 
was a brooding sense of peril in the air. 

My veteran field courier, a tall, lank Connect- 
icut Yankee, hung close to me with my horse. 

328 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" Might hev t' run," he said. " Ye ben hurt 
twict on this march, 'n' better look out fer 
t' third time. Third time's bad luck, 'nless 
ye've crost a river er seen a black cat. Them 
there airthwuks 's full er hell 'n' damnation — 
jam full er niggers, sure! Dead correspond- 
ents ain't no good to newspapers, sure ! I'll 
keep th' hoss clus t' ye as I ken. Don't mat- 
ter much 'bout me, but ye got t' git yer story 
f Manila." 

Our skirmish lines began to creep out 
through the trees to the edge of the open 
rice fields that lay between us and the great 
masses of new brown earth, behind which 
the strength and valor of the insurgent army 
crouched. 

A signal from the general, and our batteries 
began to rain shells at the enemy's works. 
Bomb after bomb burst over the breastworks. 
The little machine gun lent to the army by 
Admiral Dewey ripped out a stream of bullets. 

All was silent in the insurgent line. Not a 
shot in reply. Not a sign of life. Our guns 
raked the tops of the ridged mounds in vain. 
They provoked no reply. 

329 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" Cunnin' divils," whispered my courier, as 
he bit off a piece of plug tobacco and settled 
it in his cheek. " Goin' t' wait till we git in 
clost, 'n' throw lead 'nter us 't p'int-blank range." 

The bugles sounded loud and harsh. The 
Kansas regiment moved out into the clear 
field, with the Third Artillery on the left and 
the Pennsylvania regiment on the right. A 
dusty group of war correspondents walked 
twenty feet behind the Kansans. The sun 
glared over the bamboo woods to the right 
where Hale's brigade was silently advancing 
to flank the enemy. Not a sound disturbed 
the stillness of the scene but the tread of 
feet on the burnt grass and irrigation ridges 
that checkered the fields over which our line 
pushed on toward the mysterious stronghold. 

Once more the bugles rang out, and our regi- 
ments threw themselves flat on the hot ground. 
Colonel Funston and Colonel Hawkins stood 
on the railway embankment between their 
commands, and studied the noiseless earth- 
works through their glasses. It was a ner- 
vous situation. We were getting into close 
range. At any moment the foe might rise 

330 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

behind that sloping bulwark, and pour volley 
after volley into our unprotected ranks. Again 
the bugles commanded, and our line arose, mov- 
ing ahead with careful, stealthy steps. 

Closer, closer we drew. The faces of the 
soldiers were white. They carried their rifles 
in both hands, ready for instant work. As 
they approached the grim fortification they 
lifted their feet catlike, and bent their bodies 
forward. There was a thrill of expectant dis- 
aster in the ranks, but they went on and on, 
triggers lightly pressed, and rifles half raised. 
We were now within a hundred feet of the 
enemy. The silence was horrible. For a 
moment the brown line wavered, and was 
steadied by the sound of the bugles. 

A column of black smoke ascended from 
" Aguinaldo's palace." Was it the signal for 
the last supreme act of resistance ? Every 
man drew himself together for the first volley 
from the earthworks. It was a moment of 
agony. We were only twenty-five feet away. 
I could hear my heart thumping against my 
ribs, and confess that I looked for a stone or 
clod to hide me. 

331 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

With a shriek our line suddenly lurched for- 
ward and swept up the slanted fortification. 
The trenches were empty. The enemy had 
retired in the night, and not a man was 
in sight. A sighing sound arose from the 
cheated regiments as they halted in surprise 
on the brink of the vacant trenches, then a 
hoarse shout of laughter burst from the 
soldiers. 

At that moment there was a deafening roar 
in the town, and the black column of smoke 
rising from " Aguinaldo's palace " changed to 
a waving tongue of flame. Dense masses of 
smoke rolled up in every direction. The 
thunder of cannon and the steady volleying of 
infantry seemed to be mingled in the terrific 
clamor. Gradually the sound of battle swelled 
and the signals of savage conflict spread. 

Had Hale's brigade trapped the insurgent 
army in the capital and forced it to fight ? 

A company of Kansans dashed along a curv- 
ing lane that led straight toward the fire- 
enveloped headquarters of Aguinaldo. Colonel 
Funston followed, and I joined him. As we ran 
past the thatched huts and plaster houses, we 

332 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

could see waves of fire and smoke driving over 
the roof-tops in the town. Malolos was in 
flames. The din of fighting was demoniac. 
Volley followed volley with lightning rapidity. 
The sound of wailing voices pierced the tumult. 
Yells of terror, cries for help, could be heard. 
Forked flames lit the smoke everywhere. 

As we approached the "palace" we could 
see the fire eating through the immense roof. 
There was a low barricade of stones thrown 
across the street at the entrance to the plaza in 
front of the burning monastery, where the 
insurgent congress had defied the United 
States. A volley was fired from behind the 
barricade, and as the bullets sang over our 
heads, Funston ordered the Kansans to reply 
with two volleys and charge. 

The little colonel swung his hat in the air 
and yelled as he rushed down the street at the 
head of his men, with clinking spurs and hol- 
stered revolver leaping at his belt. 

"Give them hell! hell! hell!" 

A fierce Kansas scream burst from the sol- 
diers. They were following the hero of the army. 

Now a war correspondent in these times must 

333 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

always remember the value of big headlines. 
To be the first man to enter the conquered capi- 
tal of the Philippine Republic — even though 
the honor was won by a yard — would give my 
paper a chance to thrill the multitude with a 
sense of its sleepless enterprise. I raced with 
Funston as he bounded straight towards the 
enemy's barricade. Gradually I gained on 
him. We could hear the eager Kansans pant- 
ing behind us as they dashed along the street. 
We reached the little wall of stones almost to- 
gether, and I cleared it at a leap, just ahead 
of the colonel. 

There was no trace of the insurgent army to 
be seen. We had been tricked again. The 
glare of burning houses shone on all sides of 
the plaza. The enemy had fired the town 
before leaving, and the volley from the barri- 
cade was the farewell of the torchmen left to 
complete the work of destruction. Scores of 
Chinamen, driven from their homes by the con- 
flagration, ran about the plaza shrieking for 
water. The battle sounds were merely the 
explosions of thousands of air-tight bamboo 
beams in the blazing native houses. 

334 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

Suddenly a mighty column of fire rose from 
the " palace," the roof fell in with a roar, throw- 
ing up a swirl of sparks, and the home of the 
Philippine government was a pile of smoking 
ruins. 

" W'an't no heroes made in that battle," said 
my courier when he found me, " 'cepting, o' 
course, th' army has hold of th' telegraph wires ; 
'n' repetations 's easy made when there's a good 
stout censor 'n guard." 



335 



CHAPTER XVII 

A Race with a Wo7na?i for the Cable 

TIME was when the war correspondent 
had only men to contend against, men 
— and censors. The adventurous 
scout of the press could swing himself into the 
saddle and ride on the rim of great events 
with a light heart, knowing the ways and 
weaknesses of the male intellect. But with 
the advent of woman came sorrow. The swish 
of the journalistic petticoat on the edge of the 
military camp meant the hidden leaking of news, 
and a correspondent with a clever wife beside 
him was a man to be dreaded by his rivals. 
For a woman, when she cannot drag forth 
the secrets of an army by strength, will make 
a sly hole in some man's discretion, and the 
news will run out of itself. 

Not that I am opposed to the presence of 
woman wherever she may seek to follow for- 
tune, — for I have yet to see the place or the 

336 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

company that was not bettered by her influ- 
ence, — but the competition of men and women 
in war reporting occasionally results in the odd- 
est situations imaginable ; and sometimes the 
contest of beauty and flashlight intuitions 
against energy and experience develops phases 
of human nature undreamed of outside of the 
pages of a novel. The tender eye and be- 
guiling tongue of a woman will often upset 
the careful plans of the boldest and sharpest 
male correspondent that ever rode through a 
battle or hated a censor. He may spend the 
dreadful day on the firing line, and return to 
the telegraph station, half-dead with hunger 
and fatigue, only to find that she has wheedled 
the heart of the news out of army headquar- 
ters, and anticipated his despatch by several 
precious hours. 

I have seen women war correspondents on 
the firing line more than once, although I have 
never read an account of a battle written by 
a woman that had anything of the ring and 
dash of the real fighting. Curiously enough, 
women seldom show any signs of timidity or 
shockability on the battlefield. Once in the 

337 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

presence of an actual conflict, they are as 
eager as the men to see the slaughter pressed, 
and it sometimes happens that officers are 
compelled to restrain them from leaving the 
trenches and rushing forward with storming 
parties. The sight of slain men seems to 
move them no more than others. 

It is not often that a war correspondent has 
to engage in a physical race with a woman ; 
but that ungallant and trying experience fell 
to my lot in Manila. 

The adventure came about in this way : The 
commissioners sent by President McKinley to 
study the Philippine question in the islands 
were about to issue a proclamation to the 
natives declaring the purposes of the United 
States. This was to be the first definite an- 
nouncement of our policy in our new posses- 
sions. The importance of the proclamation 
was enormously increased by the struggle be- 
tween the political parties at home, over the 
Philippine question. One New York news- 
paper had authorized its correspondent to 
offer two thousand dollars for an advance 
copy of the document. There was deep in- 

338 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

trigue for mastery in the matter. The phras- 
ing of the proclamation would disclose the 
ultimate object of the first war of conquest 
waged by the United States. It would be 
the keynote of the bloody contest. The cor- 
respondents watched each other jealously, but 
with an innocent air of indifference to the 
approaching event, such being the artful 
methods of newsgathering. 

On the day the proclamation was issued, a 
group of anxious and uneasy correspondents 
were gathered in the splendid residence of 
the Philippine Commission, waiting for the 
president to bring the first printed proofs for 
distribution. In my eagerness to seize an 
advantage, I stood on the doorstep of the 
building, ready to capture the first copy and 
dash on to the office of the censor, two miles 
away. My little native carriage was care- 
fully turned with the horse's head toward the 
city, and the swarthy Tagalog driver sat 
with the reins in his hands waiting for the 
signal. 

Through the marble-paved corridor I could 
see a slight, girlish figure seated in the great 

339 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

dim room where visitors were received, and I 
recognized her as the bright-witted young wife 
of a correspondent who had been disabled by 
a poisoned thorn piercing his leg. Her dainty 
army hat lay on the table beside her, and 
although she was apparently looking out on 
the dreaming blue sea through the open win- 
dow, I knew that she was watching my every 
movement. She, too, was waiting for a copy 
of the proclamation, and the incessant tapping 
of her little foot on the polished floor gave 
warning that the race would be a bitter one. 
Her carriage stood in the garden, and I noticed, 
with alarm, that her horse was a finer animal 
than my poor, thin steed, which had been shot 
five times in one day — a creature with a spirit 
too great for his grotesque body. 

Hardly had the president of the commission 
reached the door when the proclamation was 
in my hands and my carriage was whirling me 
off to the censor, without whose approving 
signature nothing could be cabled from Manila ; 
but as I started, I could see my slender rival 
leap from her chair, snatch up her hat, and 
run toward the door, where the astonished 

340 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

president stood with a bundle of printed sheets 
under his arm. 

It was to be a race. Looking back through 
the dust that flew from the wheels, I could see 
the graceful woman in khaki skirt, blue jacket, 
and rakish army hat, bound into her carriage 
and, taking the reins up, lay her whip savagely 
over her horse's shoulders. 

" For God's sake go faster ! " I cried to my 
driver. " Don't let that horse pass us." 

The wiry little native stood up and lashed 
the horse into a gallop. I whipped my pencil 
out and began to skeletonize the proclamation, 
striking out "and," "the," "a," and other 
words easily supplied in New York. Every 
moment, every stroke would count in the 
struggle. The houses on each side of the 
street seemed to fly as we rattled madly along 
the Calle Reale — flaring grogshops, white 
villas, hospitals, barracks, crazy shanties — but 
as I turned, I could see my rival gaining on me. 
She was leaning forward, with the reins held 
tight, and the whip swishing fiercely, the rim 
of her military hat blown up by the wind and 
her hair flying free about her temples. 

341 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

"Faster! faster!" I shouted. " Fifty pesetas 
if we reach the palace first ! " 

My poor, long-suffering horse ! Even now 
I shudder when I recall the sound of that 
terrible whip on his bony sides. With a snort 
of agony, the animal strained his muscles and 
tore along the rough road like a runaway. I 
stood up and urged the driver, and every 
passionate word I spoke added to the fury of 
his whip. We began to draw away from our 
pursuer. The carriage creaked and swayed 
from side to side. Once we narrowly escaped 
a collision. 

But soon I could hear the swift clamor of 
my opponent's wheels, and my heart sank as I 
saw that she was again drawing near. To be 
beaten by a woman ! The thought drove the 
hot blood to my head. To be outwitted by a 
woman in an intrigue was one thing, but to be 
defeated on the open highway — the perspira- 
tion rolled down my face in great drops. 

" Faster ! " I shrieked, thumping my driver 
between the shoulders. " A hundred pesetas 
if we win ! " 

The frightened driver turned his head and 

342 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

grinned. His teeth were stained red with 
betel-nut, his lips were white, his eyes rolled. 

" Horse mucho tire," he gasped, as he swung 
his lash ferociously. 

The grinding of the wheels behind us grew 
louder. My horse was covered with foam, 
and his flesh quivered as he galloped, shaking 
the ramshackle carriage violently in the flight. 
The noise of the struggle began to attract 
attention. Squads of soldiers ran out of their 
barracks, invalids leaned out of the hospital 
windows, natives stood still and stared, store- 
keepers cheered in their doorways, a horde of 
yelping dogs raced after us in the trailing 
dust, and — Heaven be gentle to me ! — Gen- 
eral Lawton sat in front of his headquarters, 
and laughed when my hat blew off. The 
street seemed to reel in the dazzling sunlight. 
The fury of the flight made the wheels jump 
as they struck the stones, and I was bumped 
about on the seat until my teeth chattered. 

Now I could see her horse's outstretched 
head at my side, hear its desperate breathing, 
and see the curling end of her lash as it shot 
out. Her little figure sat high on the seat 

343 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

and her feet were braced against the dash- 
board. Her lips were pressed together and 
her eyes shone with excitement. Her face 
was deadly white. She paid no attention to 
me, but gazed straight ahead at the road and 
laid on the lashes. The wind had forced her 
hat on the back of her head and the army 
buttons on her jacket sparkled in the sun- 
light. The edges of the white proclamation 
fluttered at her bosom. 

So, for the space of nearly five minutes, we 
swept on in a rip-roaring, crashing, mad tilt 
for victory, losing or gaining inch by inch. 
My driver moved our carriage zigzag to block 
the street. Chivalry had vanished ; courtesy 
was forgotten. It was a struggle for news, 
fierce and sexless — the old-style man against 
the new-style woman. To surrender the road 
to my rival meant a defeat that could not be 
explained by cable. The modern newspaper 
and its thirsty presses take no account of the 
amenities of life. It has one supreme law 
— send the news and send it first. Friend- 
ship, home, health, and life itself, if necessary, 
must be sacrificed in the effort. 

344 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

The dust choked us ; the sunlight dazzled 
our eyes ; the jolting made my fever-weakened 
body ache. My hair was tossed and filled 
with flying dirt. The barking of the dogs 
and the wild plunging of the horses swelled 
the strain of misery. 

" Faster ! " I screamed, as I clung to my 
seat. " I'll give you the horse if you beat 
her!" 

The wiry driver crouched as he took a new 
hold on the reins for a final burst of speed. 
My rival stood up and bent over the dash- 
board. Her brows were drawn together, and 
the corners of her mouth drooped. The deli- 
cate nostrils were dilated. Every line showed 
the thoroughbred. The horses were almost 
abreast, and the wheels clashed harshly. 

"See-kee!" snarled the driver to the pant- 
ing steed, " see-kee ! see-kee ! " 

There was a loud crash, and I was thrown 
out of my seat. We had run into a heavy 
wagon drawn by a water buffalo ; one shaft 
was tangled in the rope harness, and the buf- 
falo was lunging angrily at my horse's flank. 

I looked up and saw a dainty hand waving 

345 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

farewell to me. My rival had a clear road, 
and was forcing the pace. She looked back 
for a moment as I stood there in the street. 
Her face was radiant. Again she shook her 
hand, with an air of saucy defiance that mad- 
dened me. 

In a few moments we extricated ourselves 
and started in pursuit. The horse was lame 
and his spirit was gone. Again the pencil 
struck word after word from the proclamation. 
A woman had disgraced me in a race ; per- 
haps experience and skill would recover the 
lost ground. She would forget to prepare her 
despatch in advance and would have to wait 
in the censor's office. I might steal in, get 
the censor's signature and be off for the cable 
office before she could realize the situation. I 
was dealing with a clever woman and would 
need my wits about me. 

We passed out of the Calle Reale, and skirt- 
ing the green meadow where the noble Rizal 
was bound and shot for loving his country 
too well, drove through the Lunetta, — that 
music-haunted strip of sea-park where Spain 
used to slaughter native patriots by the score. 

346 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Dewey's white warships rode at anchor in the 
blue flood, the ramparts and guns of the 
" walled city" — the ancient part of Manila — 
rose before us, but there was no sign of my 
rival. Over the creaking drawbridge we rolled, 
and through the little, sentinelled gate, into the 
narrow, paved streets with their quaint Spanish 
houses. And presently we drew up in front of 
the stone-and-plaster palace from which the 
United States waged war for the conquest of 
the Philippines. A leap from the carriage, a 
dash through a stately marble entrance hall, 
up a flight of stairs, past the stern, sculptured 
face of Magellan, along a corridor lined with 
the offices of the army staff, and I stood breath- 
less and hatless before the bald, spectacled, 
cold-eyed censor. 

In the next room sat my rival, bending over 
her despatch, the busy pencil trembling in her 
fingers. Her face and clothes were covered 
with dust. Her hair was in disorder. Her 
bosom heaved. 

Throwing the proclamation on the censor's 
desk, I told him that I would send it all, and 
begged him to be quick. 

347 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" All ? " he roared. " All that ? You're going 
to cable the whole thing ? " 

My blood danced. I looked quickly at my 
rival. She would hear. 

"Yes — all," I answered in a low voice, and 
with a pantomime appeal for secrecy. 

"All?" he shouted, so that every word could 
be heard in the other room. " Do you mean 
to say that" — and he grew shriller at every 
word — " you intend to send the whole proc- 
lamation ? " 

The enemy was warned. I saw her start. 
The color flamed in her pale face. She 
gathered her despatch up and waited. Her 
foot beat a sharp tattoo on the floor. Her head 
was thrown back impatiently. The race was 
to be resumed. 

How slow the censor was ! He drew enclos- 
ing lines about the proclamation with a blue 
pencil, and wrote his initials on each page. 
Then he yawned. 

"It'll cost money to cable that," he said, as 
he languidly scanned the despatch. 

" Quick ! " I urged. " Let me have it. 
Every second counts." 

348 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

The censor frowned, and adjusted his spec- 
tacles. 

"We don't do things in a hurry here," he 
said. " I must see what there is in this des- 
patch. The newspapers are too sensational, 
and the general won't stand any nonsense." 

There was something maddening in the 
easy insolence of the man. I could have 
strangled him with pleasure — two miles and 
a half to the cable office, and my foe in the 
next room ready to follow me. But at last 
he surrendered the despatch, and I made for 
the street. 

My horse was tired out. I seized a carriage 
standing close by, and ordered my driver to 
start at a gallop for the main cable office on 
the outskirts of the city. There was a branch 
office nearer, but it would be dangerous to 
let a woman get to the main office alone. Who 
could tell what gentle arts of persuasion and 
flattery, what tear-in-the-voice diplomacy might 
accomplish? A minute lost or won, even a 
second, would settle the fight for possession 
of the cable. The man who competes with a 
woman must be sure that she does not get 

349 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

between him and his base of operations. A 
thousand subtle forces alien to the slow male 
mind may trip and trap him. I had learned 
by bitter experience that a woman will out- 
reach a man by the very elements which are 
set down by philosophy as her weaknesses. 
She can arouse sympathy and compassion 
when a man will excite ridicule. She can 
grasp an advantage, however shadowy it may 
be, and convert it into a solid thing. She 
can see when a man is blind. When her soul 
is aroused she fears nothing and knows noth- 
ing but that she is a woman, and that she is 
bound to have her way. In short, she is the 
most dangerous, the most cunning, the most 
wilful, and the most damnably adorable rival 
that ever confronts the male war correspondent. 
We swept back through the mediaeval 
streets, thundered over the venerable draw- 
bridge that spans the dry moat surrounding 
the massive walls of the old city, and galloped 
along the Lunetta to the sound of a military 
band. We looked for pursuit, but in vain. 
There was no trace of that terrible woman. 
The road was clear behind us, save for the 

350 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

slow pleasure vehicles moving toward the 
music stand. She had gone to the branch 
cable office. She would be delayed by the 
Spanish clerks, for it would take a miracle to 
make a Spaniard do anything in a hurry. 
There was still a chance for me. I might 
beat her yet. The manager at the main office 
was an Englishman, and could be stirred to 
swift action. If I reached the end of the 
cable a moment before her despatch was tele- 
graphed in from the branch office, God would 
have given her into my hands. I had a fresh 
horse. The air seemed to grow more pleasant 
as we whirled along the edge of the sparkling 
water. My driver kept looking backward, 
and believing that the race was over, allowed 
the horse to settle down into a gentle trot, 
while he lit a cigarette. But I would take 
no chances. I remembered the startled eyes 
and glowing face in the censor's office. My 
rival was not a woman to give up a fight. 

" Gallop ! " I cried. " Use your whip as if 
your life depended on it." 

The stinging lash went singing through the 
air and the horse went forward at full speed. 

35i 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" Faster ! Faster ! " 

Back through the Calle Reale we went, 
lurching and rattling, with a train of barking 
dogs racing in our dust ; back past the hospi- 
tals, saloons, shops, barracks, and white villas, 
making the highway hideous with our onrush. 
The soldiers and the shopkeepers cheered me 
as I went by, and General Lawton flung my 
hat at the carriage in a burst of enthusiasm. 
Everybody understood that it was a race for 
the cable, and everybody thought I had won. 
But I knew better. I trembled as I thought 
of that frail figure flying in the opposite 
direction to the branch office, the determined 
face, the quick wit, and man-compelling tongue. 
On, on, on, past schools and monasteries, past 
the army gospel tent, over the road on which 
the Spanish troops fled before the American 
vanguard, past houses riddled with shells 
from Dewey's guns, past wonderful trees that 
shed fragrance at night and are scentless in 
the daytime, with dogs in front, dogs on each 
side, and dogs behind, snapping and snarling 
and tumbling over each other. The sweet 
faint odor of the green ylang-ylang flower 

352 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

was in every nostril. The tropic sun was 
reflected in every window. A cool breeze 
fanned my face. The road was clear. 

When we reached the little wooden cable 
office, whose walls were scarred by many a bul- 
let, I burst into the manager's office and laid 
my despatch before him. 

" I want to hold the wire." 

" It will cost money to make sure of it," said 
the manager. 

Glancing around the office I saw that every 
telegraph instrument was idle. Not a sound 
disturbed the silence. My rival's despatch had 
not yet begun to arrive on the city wire. At 
that moment the instrument through which her 
message must come began to click loudly. The 
manager ran to the key and listened. It did 
not need that rough chuckle to tell me that my 
enemy had filed her despatch. The manager 
turned to me with a curious smile. 

" You want your message to go first ? " 

" Of course — it must go first. I am first on 
the ground." 

"Yes," he said, "you are first by nearly a 
minute. Will you send it at the press rate, the 

353 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

commercial rate, or the urgent rate ? The com- 
mercial rate is three times greater , than the 
press rate, and the urgent rate is nine times 
more than the press rate." 

"Send the first page at the urgent rate," and 
I groaned when I figured out the cost. 

The city wire was silent. An operator sat 
down and made ready to take my rival's mes- 
sage. Another operator began to cable my 
first page to Hong Kong. I watched the city 
wire. The manager watched me. It was a des- 
perate game. The little woman at the other 
end of that wire represented one of the richest 
and most prodigal newspapers in New York. 
Its proprietor prided himself on his supremacy 
in war news. He would not forgive a corre- 
spondent who was beaten. My enemy was a 
woman. What would she do ? Would she file 
her whole despatch at the urgent rate ? She 
had the professional reputation of her sick hus- 
band to guard. Her newspaper could afford to 
use the urgent rate. But did she have the nerve ? 

My first page was finished. The cable 
operator asked for instructions, and the mana- 
ger faced me. 

354 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" Press or urgent ? " 

The city wire clicked sharply, and the 
operator began to write out my rival's despatch. 
There was no time to lose. An urgent despatch 
would take precedence over all but government 
messages. It was a plunge in the dark, yet I 
had to take it, for in another moment the com- 
peting despatch would be on the cable, if it was 
marked " urgent," and I would be helpless to 
recover the wire. 

" Urgent," I said. " I must win." 

Then I sat down and tried to count the ex- 
pense of sending the proclamation to New 
York. The woman was mastered at last. She 
might send an urgent despatch right on the 
heels of my message, but the money would be 
wasted. Official matters would crowd in be- 
tween the two despatches at Hong Kong, Singa- 
pore, Calcutta, Bombay, Aden, Port Said, 
Gibraltar, and all along the route to America, 
widening the distance between my message and 
hers. Her words would reach New York a 
day after mine and, for newspaper purposes, 
a day is as good as a century. The fight was 
won. 

355 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

In a few minutes we heard a light step and 
my rival entered. Her face was colorless and 
drawn. She looked imploringly at the mana- 
ger. The burly Englishman smiled at us. 

" I can't tell secrets," he said. " Some one 
has been beaten, but you'll never get a hint out 
of me." 

She smiled and shook hands with me. 

" I suppose you have been cabling a few 
words," she said, with an innocent face. 

" Oh, just a little message to let them know 
I'm alive." 

" I sent a word or two myself." 

We looked into each other's eyes and under- 
stood. 

" That message of yours will cost just seven 
thousand six hundred and two dollars and forty- 
two cents in silver," whispered the manager in 
my ear as I left the office. 

It was my first race with a woman. Heaven 
save me from another ! 



356 



CHAPTER XVIII 

In the Black Reptiblic 

IT is many years since I first breathed the 
enchanted air of journalism, and in that 
time the wayward fortunes of my profes- 
sion have led me among many peoples. I have 
heard the Aladdins of America and Europe 
cry, " New lamps for old ! " and I have heard 
the Aladdins of Asia answer, " Old lamps for 
new ! " I have wandered on the frontier where 
civilization and barbarism meet, seeing good and 
bad in both. But I have looked upon no 
stranger country than Hayti, the black island 
republic, where gold-laced militarism, French 
fashions and Christianity are hopelessly tangled 
with African serpent worship and savage tribal 
traditions. 

I was sent to the negro republic by a great 
American newspaper, whose proprietor believed 
that the Haytians must some day become a part 
of the United States ; and I bore a message to 

357 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

President Hyppolite — one of those curious com- 
munications which New York journalism occa- 
sionally addresses to small nations when news is 
scarce ; for the modern editor is seldom con- 
tented unless he feels that he is making history 
as well as writing it. 

There was something romantic and mysteri- 
ous in a mission to a people whose great grand- 
fathers were naked savages in the African forests. 
A curious place to send a city-bred American 
newspaper man to ; yet a realm full of food for 
the student of man. I had seen the red savage 
of Dakota in a silk hat, but I was presently to see 
the African savage wearing a general's uniform 
and a sword, and speaking French. 

A hundred years ago the negroes of Hayti 
who had been carried in chains from Africa to 
take the place of the gentle native Indians, 
worked to death by the Christian discoverers of 
America, astonished the world by setting up 
an independent government of their own. 

The influence of the French Revolution spread 
itself to the remotest parts of the French do- 
minions. Under the leadership of Toussaint 
l'Ouverture, a black of unmixed blood, the people 

358 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

of Hayti drove the troops of Napoleon, of 
Spain, and of England out of the island. An 
army of slaves, commanded by a slave, success- 
fully defied the conqueror of Europe. Their 
soil was the richest known in any part of the 
world. French energy and administrative 
genius had developed the country until its 
products were carried to all the great ports 
of Europe, and its treasury was overflowing. 
Splendid palaces were to be found in the cities. 
There was not a more prosperous place on the 
map. But the cruelties of France drove the 
slaves into rebellion, and when Toussaint, after 
freeing his country, had been lured away and 
starved to death in a dungeon by Napoleon, his 
successor, Dessalines, soon after had himself 
crowned as Emperor of Hayti. When he died 
the republic was founded, but the first president, 
Christope, proclaimed himself a king. So ex- 
traordinary was the enterprise of this savage 
monarch, that he was able to build a beautiful 
palace and a fortress with walls eighty feet high 
on a mountain peak five thousand feet above 
the sea — a feat that amazes engineers who have 
seen the ruins. After the death of the king, 

359 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

the republic was reestablished and maintained 
until Soulouque, an ignorant negro soldier, was 
chosen as president. He, too, became an em- 
peror, paying ten thousand dollars for a jewelled 
crown and a hundred and fifty thousand dollars 
for the rest of the royal regalia. When he 
finally fled from the island in 1859, tne republic 
was again restored, and it has been the Haytian 
form of government ever since. 

The history of the black republic is a tale of 
conspiracy, war, treachery, massacre, cannibal- 
ism, and corruption without a parallel among the 
nations. And yet it was of the founder of this 
nation that Wendell Phillips said : — 

" I would call him Napoleon, but Napoleon 
made his way to empire over broken oaths and 
through a sea of blood. This man never broke 
his word. I would call him Cromwell, but 
Cromwell was only a soldier, and the state he 
founded went down with him into his grave. I 
would call him Washington, but the great Vir- 
ginian held slaves. This man risked his empire 
rather than permit the slave trade in the 
humblest village of his dominions. Fifty years 
hence, when Truth gets a hearing, the Muse 

360 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

of History will put Phocion for the Greek, and 
Brutus for Rome, Hampden for England, Fay- 
ette for France ; choose Washington as the bright, 
consummate flower of our earlier civilization, 
and John Brown the ripe fruit of our noonday ; 
then, dipping her pen in the sunlight, will write 
in the clear blue, above them all, the name of 
the soldier, the statesman, the martyr, Toussaint 
rOuverture." 

But I had not been in Hayti forty-eight hours 
before I learned that the national hero was not 
Toussaint, of whom the Marquis d'Hermonas 
wrote, " He was the purest soul that God ever 
put into a body," but Dessalines, the pitiless 
emperor who ordered his soldiers to kill practi- 
cally the whole white population of the island. 

Rome had reared her altars in the island, and 
the state religion was Christianity ; but the 
voodoo priesthood, skilled in mysterious vegeta- 
ble poisons, and burning with the serpent-super- 
stitions of the African wilds, was a power among 
the people. The Christian knight may lay his 
sword upon the tomb of Christ and pray for 
victory, but he knows that the warrior of Islam 
has laid his cimeter upon the grave of Mohanv 

361 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

med in appeal. So the solemn ritual of the 
Christian church in Hayti is answered by the 
ghastly rites of voodooism. The same people 
attend both houses of worship, finding nothing 
incongruous in this contrast of heaven and hell. 
It was New Year's Eve, and the streets of 
Port-au-Prince, the Haytian capital, echoed the 
dull throbbing of drums beaten in the voodoo 
ceremonies. Sounds of barbaric revelry came 
from every direction. The wild orgies of the 
serpent worshippers were in full swing. Mount- 
ing a native pony, so thin that he could scarcely 
bear my weight, I rode about with a guide 
through the filthy streets of the city. It was a 
night of beauty, but the white moonlight that 
descended from the lovely tropic sky made the 
rows of huts and slattern houses look even more 
hideous than they were in the day. At almost 
every corner we were challenged by a barefooted 
negro sentry, for Port-au-Prince was under siege 
law. Around the palace of the president — a 
modern plaster building — was a cordon of 
sentries, all barefooted, and many of them 
swinging in hammocks while on duty. The 
city swarmed with soldiers and with officers 

362 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

covered with gold lace. Several times that 
night we saw officers in resplendent uniforms, 
but without shoes. The monotonous rub-a-dub 
of the voodoo drums, the ululations of the 
mystic singing, the incessant fanfare of military 
bugles, and the lazy droning of the sentries in all 
the streets added to the weird suggestiveness of 
the sullen black faces that stared at us wherever 
we turned. We were in the midst of negro 
civilization, in the capital of a nation governed 
by black men for a century without the inter- 
ference of the white race, — and we were 
within sight of Cuba. The sentries gave me my 
first glimpse of the Haytian character. 

" Who goes there ? " (in French). 

" Foreigner ! " answered my companion. 

"White man, give me ten cents." 

" Go to blazes ! " 

" White man, give me a cigar." 

" Go to blazes ! " 

" Bon ! " 

It happened that way again and again, 
always in the same words and always with the 
same result. Sometimes the sentries were 
asleep in their hammocks, and, awakened by 

363 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

noise of our ponies' hoofs, did not even take 
the trouble to raise their heads when chal- 
lenging us. 

On the outskirts of the city we entered a 
cabin and watched a black voodoo priest with 
a red handkerchief tied about his head, draw- 
ing cabalistic signs around a rusty sword stuck 
in the ground, while seven or eight half naked 
negresses abandoned themselves to an un- 
speakably obscene dance before an altar-like 
box which contained the live serpent-god. 
Twenty or thirty negro men, some of them 
fashionably dressed, and some of them ragged 
peasants, stood about the room drinking rum. 
A wizened old man sat on the ground thump- 
ing a sheepskin drawn over the end of a hol- 
low log, and giving voice to a wild rhythmic 
caterwauling, which was answered from time 
to time by a passionate chorus from the 
singers. It was the voodoo dance of the Afri- 
can tribes — the prelude to human sacrifice 
and cannibalism, although the influence of 
Western civilization in Hayti had substituted 
the blood of goats and fowl for the blood of 
innocent children — "the goat without horns." 

364 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

As I looked away from the dusky dancers 
twisting and swaying before the altar of the 
mystic serpent, I was astonished to see on a 
shelf on the opposite wall colored pictures of 
Christ and the Virgin, with lighted candles 
twinkling in front of them. Presently the 
voodoo priest trimmed the lights, and bowing 
low before the picture of the Virgin, drank a 
glass of white rum, and resumed his incanta- 
tions at the voodoo shrine. Gradually the 
men began to dance before the negresses, the 
crowd grew drunker, and the scene became 
so foul that we withdrew. As we left, all lights 
were extinguished but the candles that shone 
upon the mild face of the Saviour. For hours 
we went from hut to hut, witnessing the rites 
of Central Africa in the capital of a nation 
whose state religion is Christian. 

In one hut I talked with a Haytian colonel 
in full uniform. As I turned to leave, the 
colonel touched me on the shoulder. 

" Give me ten cents," he said. 

" Give it to him," said my guide ; " he is 
drunk, and white men are not safe here." 

Several days afterward I saw the colonel 

365 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

on duty at a president's palace, the haughtiest 
figure of them all. 

The next day President Hyppolite reviewed 
his troops on the parade-ground before the 
palace. He sat on a black horse in the shade 
of a tree, and he was a fine figure, with his 
gold-embroidered blue coat, immense epau- 
lettes, cocked hat, buff breeches, and riding 
boots. Blue spectacles shaded his eyes. A 
large silver decoration glittered on his breast. 
On either side of the president were grouped 
his principal generals, heavy-faced negroes, 
covered with gold braid, and wearing enor- 
mous swords. The crowd looked with hushed 
awe upon the military leaders. Caesar and 
his legionaries were not more impressive to the 
multitudes of Rome. Even when the bare- 
footed soldiers, who were compelled for that 
day to wear shoes, removed them and marched 
past the president, carrying their footgear 
in their hands, no one smiled. But a white 
man could not look at the gorgeous generals 
without an effort to control the muscles of his 
face. Sometimes it seemed as though there 
were as many officers as privates in the pro- 

366 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

cession. Sir Spencer St. John, the former 
British minister to Hayti, has seriously re- 
corded the fact that out of a Haytian military 
force of sixteen thousand there were fifteen 
hundred generals of division. 

After a night in the house of an American 
friend — with tiny lizards crawling on the walls 
of my bedroom as thick as flies, and a deadly 
centipede discovered under my pillow — I went 
to see President Hyppolite. 

The head of the black republic received me 
in a large room furnished in the gaudiest colors, 
the only striking note being the white anti- 
macassars on the chairs and sofas. He was a 
strongly built man with intensely black skin, and 
his splendidly rounded head was covered with 
wool of startling whiteness. His eyes were 
hidden by iron-framed blue goggles. The big 
flat nose, the long upper lip, the square jaws, 
the jutting chin, even, flat teeth, and full fore- 
head, indicated the will power that had carried 
a revolutionary chief into the president's chair. 
Hyppolite wore a general's uniform, and in spite 
of the terrible heat, it was buttoned to the chin. 
His hands were long, sinewy, and gorilla-like. 

367 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

The expression of his countenance was that of 
goodness and nobility. 

The black president seemed to be unable to 
smile. Humor was wasted upon him. The 
negroes of Hayti are a sullen people. A man 
accustomed to the lovable laughter of negroes 
in the United States — men whose ancestors 
came from the same tribes that peopled Hayti — 
is always surprised by the smileless, saturnine 
aspect of the Haytian face. 

It was an interesting thing for an American 
citizen to study the foremost man in a nation of 
negroes, a man born in a republic whose funda- 
mental idea is hostility to white men. 

Hyppolite listened to the plan for a more exclu- 
sively American policy in Hayti. His eyes were 
concealed behind the little blue panes, but he 
opened and shut his terrible hands impatiently. 

" We are content to be as we are," he said in 
the local French patois. "We have learned to 
look with suspicion upon all schemes for our 
island coming from white men. We know that 
they would overrun us if we gave them the 
opportunity. What has your nation done for 
our race ? " 

368 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" It has poured out blood and money, and laid 
waste whole states in order to make the black 
man the equal of the white man," I answered. 

" Has it ? " growled the president. " It has 
cheated the negro with promises that are never 
kept, and with laws that are never enforced. 
The blacks of the United States are kept in a 
state of inferiority from which they can never 
rise. You cannot name one negro governor of 
a state, although there are several American 
states in which the whites are outnumbered by 
the blacks. The people of Hayti won their 
independence from their white masters by the 
sword, and they will keep it by the sword. The 
United States tried to get us to give them the 
Mole St. Nicholas for a coaling station ; but we 
are not fools. No white nation seeks a foothold 
in this island except as a basis for conquest." 

" That is a remarkable statement," I said, 
"when you recall the fact that, but for the 
warning given by Mr. Monroe, a President of 
the United States, to the Holy Alliance, Hayti 
would have been reconquered by France." 

" Ah yes ! the Monroe Doctrine ! always the 
Monroe Doctrine ! " cried Hyppolite. " But the 

369 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

history of the world shows that no race can 
develop unless it develops itself ; no race can 
be free unless the means of freedom are in its 
own hands; and no white people can look at a 
rich country inhabited by negroes without desir- 
ing to secure it for themselves. We are free, 
and we intend to remain free. You see a negro 
holding the highest office in the nation. Would 
that be possible if the United States or any 
other white government had control ? No. Each 
race must live apart to be free. When the 
races mix, one race or the other must fall into 
a condition of inferiority." 

" And the negroes of Africa ? " I interrupted. 
" Will they, too, be able to maintain governments 
of their own ? " 

" Probably not. They are unarmed, and sur- 
rounded by powerful white nations. But that 
is a question for the future. The example of 
Hayti may yet play a part in the destiny of 
Africa." 

Not being initiated into the shrewd mys- 
teries of New York journalism, the president 
could not understand why an American news- 
paper should meddle with the governmental 

370 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

affairs of the little republic. Nor did I seek 
to enlighten him concerning the advantages 
which a sharp turn of adventurous enterprise 
may bring to the press in my sensation-loving 
country. 

That week we had a thrilling experience in 
Port-au-Prince. An American citizen had been 
arrested for smuggling six cotton shirts into 
the island. His accuser was an aide-de-camp 
to the president. In spite of treaty stipula- 
tions, the prisoner was kept in jail without 
having a hearing in court. The American 
minister had gone to the United States for a 
rest, and the Haytian government laughed at 
the repeated protests of the American consul- 
general. The absent minister was brought to 
Port-au-Prince on board of the gunboat Atlanta. 
He hurried to the palace and demanded the 
instant release of the imprisoned American 
and the payment of twenty thousand dollars 
— a thousand dollars for each day of wrongful 
detention. Hyppolite listened to the minister, 
and scornfully bowed him out of the room. 
Then he sent for the admiral of the Haytian 
navy, who reported that, of his two ships, 

371 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

one could not move because the engines were 
broken, and the other had no guns in place. 
The president consulted his ministers, who ad- 
vised him to resist. Presently the whole city 
knew that the republic had been threatened 
by the United States. The Haytians regarded 
the matter as a fine joke. It was worth a 
trip to the tropics to see the jaunty airs of 
the negro generals, and to hear the terrific 
rolling of drums in front of the palace. 

The American minister consulted the captain 
of the Atlanta, and both sent cabled messages 
to Washington recommending a " demonstra- 
tion in force." 

" What will you do if our gunboat bombards 
your capital ? " I said to one of the black 
generals. 

" Kill every white man in Port-au-Prince," 
he said with an amiable grin. 

" But that will not save your city from de- 
struction." 

The general pushed his cocked hat on the 
back of his woolly head and spat on the ground 
vigorously. I could hear his teeth click. 

"Two British warships once threatened to 

372 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

bombard the city of Les Cayes," he said, " and 
do you know what reply the brave Haytians 
made ? " 

"No." 

"They said to the British, 'Tell us which 
end of the city you will begin to burn, and we 
will commence to burn the other end.' That 
was a good answer, wasn't it?" 

It is impossible to convey an idea of the 
leering vanity and insolence in that savage face. 
The eyes rolled sidewise, the lids drooped cun- 
ningly, the nostrils expanded, and the thick 
underlip was thrust out. 

" Tell that story to the captain of your gun- 
boat," he said. " Tell him I told you — I, I, I " 
— and he slapped his breast valiantly. 

" Suppose you come to the ship with me and 
tell him yourself," I suggested. 

" It would be contrary to the etiquette of 
our army," he said. "A Haytian soldier is 
not allowed to boast." 

While the captain of the Atlanta waited for 
orders to train his guns on Port-au-Prince and 
bring the black republic to terms, he found it 
impossible to learn the size or condition of the 

373 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

guns in the three harbor forts which com- 
manded his vessel. In order not to unneces- 
sarily arouse the passions of the population, the 
captain decided not to send any of his men 
on shore, and requested me to find out what I 
could about the armament of the forts. 

It was a serious task, for a white man dis- 
covered in the act of gathering information 
for a hostile warship would have his throat 
cut without ceremony. I went to a drinking 
house just outside of the wall of the cemetery 
and found a Haytian colonel with whom I had 
become acquainted. 

" You have come just in time to see a man 
die," he said, as I sat down at the table beside 
him. " He cut a man's throat, and will be 
shot. The army does that work in Hayti." 

A great multitude gathered, men, women, 
and children, of every shade of black, shout- 
ing, singing, drinking, and dancing. It was a 
festival. Not a note of pity, not a sign of 
reverence. The bright handkerchiefs worn by 
the women lent an air of carnival gayety to 
the picture. Children were carried in their 
mothers' arms to see the brave sight. 

374 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

Then came a shining stream of bayonets, 
and sixteen hundred black soldiers were 
drawn up in a line facing the cemetery wall, 
with a dazzling group of mounted officers at 
the centre. The prisoner, a fine-looking, well- 
dressed negro, was led out in front of the 
soldiers by a white cord fastened to his right 
wrist, a black priest with a crucifix walking 
by his side. 

The military commandant of Port-au-Prince, 
plumed and covered with gold lace, galloped 
out to the prisoner, unrolled the death war- 
rant, struck a theatrical attitude and, with 
one hand outstretched, read the sentence. A 
firing squad of six soldiers advanced to within 
fifteen feet of the victim. 

" Isn't it fine ! " said the colonel, rapturously, 
as we watched the scene. 

A bottle of rum and a glass were handed 
to the prisoner. He filled the glass and 
drank it off at a gulp. Then he received a 
cigar and a match. He scratched the match 
on his trousers, lit the cigar in a lazy, swag- 
gering way, and puffed at it with the easy 
carelessness of a mere spectator. It was an 

375 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

old custom, for the Haytians enjoy the sight 
of courage in the presence of death. 

On all sides rose sounds of festivity. The 
crowd swayed joyously in the bright sunlight. 
And out there on the dull red earth the con- 
demned man stood beside his open grave, 
calming smoking his cigar, with the stolid 
soul of old Africa in his face. 

The squad fired. Not a shot hit the prisoner. 
The soldiers reloaded their rifles and fired 
again. His arm was broken, but he stood 
still. Another volley and he fell, yet he 
moved. A soldier advanced, and putting the 
muzzle of his rifle to the prostrate body, 
ended the agony. Then the crowd shrieked and 
danced, and was suddenly silent and sullen. 

How was I to get a look at the interior of 
the forts ? It was plain that the colonel 
would not help me if he suspected my pur- 
pose. There was not a man in the place who 
would not have cheerfully killed me, had I 
given a hint of my mission. 

"You have plenty of soldiers for a small 
nation," I remarked, as the troops surged past 
the house. 

376 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

The colonel showed the whites of his eyes, 
and twisted his mouth into the semblance of 
a smile. 

"The great Napoleon made that same 
remark," he said. 

" It's a pity you have no good guns in your 
harbor forts." 

"Wha-a-at?" 

" It seems so strange that a great military 
nation like Hayti" — I kept my face straight 
— " should be defenceless against a sea 
attack." 

" Have you seen the guns in our forts ? " 
The colonel showed his sharp white teeth. 

"No; but I'll bet fifty francs that there is 
not a good modern rifle in place." 

"I accept the bet," roared the colonel. 

"How will we decide it?" 

" I will show you the guns." 

"When?" 

"Now." 

It was necessary to show some reluctance. 

" I'm afraid you are too sharp for me, col- 
onel. Let us wait until to-morrow." 

"No, no," shouted the excited officer, jump- 

377 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

ing to his feet, "you must go now. I 
don't intend to let you escape from the 
wager." 

And so I was taken into all the forts, and 
was permitted to examine all the guns and 
ammunition. Within half an hour I had made 
my report to the captain of the Atlanta, and 
that night he trained his guns on the one 
effective fort in Port-au-Prince. 

But hardly were the preparations for a 
bombardment complete when a message from 
Washington instructed the commander of the 
gunboat to refrain from any hostile demonstra- 
tion, and the negro generals got drunk for 
joy. The United States had been challenged 
to war and had not dared to face the nation 
that vanquished Napoleon. 

In the generous excitement of that great 
moment, the American minister was privately 
informed that the Haytian government would 
gladly pay the twenty thousand dollars de- 
manded by the United States, on condition 
that the Minister of Foreign Affairs was to 
be allowed to quietly retain six thousand dol- 
lars for himself — the American minister to 

378 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

make his own arrangements for a share of the 
booty. The offer was declined. 

Island of fairy loveliness ! Palm-crested, ever- 
green mountains ! Dreamy valleys, sparkling 
with sweet waters ! Soil of eternal youth and 
riches ! The palaces and plantations of the 
French have vanished. The knightly spirit of 
Toussaint l'Ouverture is dead. The stateliness 
of the old days has given place to a monstrous 
caricature of civilization. A stupid and merci- 
less military despotism arrays its blood-stained 
body in the fair garment of republicanism. 
The most corrupt and debased government 
known to man nourishes in the one spot 
where nature seems to link heaven and earth 
together. 

Who that has seen Hayti and the United 
States, shall say that the negro is dragged 
downward by association with his white brother? 
The black men of Hayti have lived for a hun- 
dred years, without outside hindrance, on a soil 
of surprising wealth, in a climate married to 
their temperament, shielded from invasion by 
the greatest power of the American continent, 
and possessed of all the knowledge that history 

379 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

can teach a free people. Yet they are slowly 
returning to the darkness and misery of pri- 
mordial Africa. The black men of the United 
States, torn from their native soil by slave- 
dealers, and set in the midst of white men, 
have profited by every advance the republic 
has made, and, led by lofty-minded negroes like 
Booker T. Washington, are gradually emerg- 
ing into the light of that serene civilization in 
which alone can true liberty endure. 

I sharpened the pencil which jotted down 
these lines with a knife from the table of the 
negro emperor Soulouque. It has a cheap 
iron blade and a solid gold handle, on which 
is engraved an imperial crown and Soulouque's 
monogram. It was this sable monarch who 
created four negro princes and fifty-nine negro 
dukes, yet he ended his murderous reign by 
flying from his enraged subjects under the 
protection of the white crew of a British 
gunboat. 

" Create nobles ? " cried Dessalines, when he 
ascended the throne. " Never ! I am the 
only noble in Hayti." 



380 



CHAPTER XIX 

Newsgathering in the Clouds 

LOOKING through the pages of the 
note-books that carry the story of my 
' boyish days in journalism, I find a 
few rough scrawlings that bring to mind a 
bright Canadian sky, the green slopes of 
Mount Royal, a chattering crowd spread out 
on one of the lacrosse fields of Montreal, and 
a great, glistening, yellow gas bag wobbling 
in circles above an iron cage, with huge fan 
wheels, in which I was to make a journey 
through the air for the edification of the in- 
satiate American newspaper public. 

It was midsummer; news was scarce, and 
New York had to be amused. There was 
something occult in aerial navigation that ap- 
pealed to the imagination, and, like a bull- 
fight, a balloon trip held the delightfully excit- 
ing possibilities of human sacrifice. Besides, 
there was always a chance that the latest 

38i 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

airship might solve the great problem and 
give man dominion of the air. I was a youth 
then and the prospect of rough adventure 
thrilled me. 

" The confounded old airship may not be 
worth a continental," said my chief, before I 
left New York, " but the voyage will make a 
good story. Be careful of yourself. If you 
break your neck, remember, you can't write 
your despatch." With this sympathetic advice 
in my ears, I went to Montreal. 

The multitude that gathered in the lacrosse 
ground to see the new airship ascend was 
typical of Canada — boisterous, fresh-faced, and 
full of the love of open-air sports — with here 
and there a bearded habiton, a jaunty volun- 
teer in uniform, or an Indian pedler. It was 
the same sort of crowd that in winter flings 
itself into the hearty excitements of skating, 
snowshoeing, and tobogganing. 

A thousand fingers poked the varnished 
sides of the big gas bag, picked at the net 
that held it in captivity, or watched the painted 
canvas pipe that undulated and pulsed, like a 
monstrous brown serpent, as the gas streamed 

382 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

through it into the balloon. A few examined 
the odd-looking steering wheels, whose great 
blades, turned by an iron crank, were made 
to feather like oars at any point, a simple 
mechanical device. Strong guy-ropes pre- 
vented the tossing yellow monster from tear- 
ing itself away in the rising wind. A group 
of sturdy workmen held on to the car, a 
primitive square structure made of light iron 
tubes. 

It was time to start. Grimley, the aero- 
naut, a shrewd little Yorkshireman, nimble of 
hand and foot, stepped into the car, and a 
babble of voices arose. The multitude pressed 
close and stared at the sky-sailor. He was a 
singular figure and carried with him a strange 
sense of mystery. When he was not a bal- 
loonist he was a tailor, dancing master, or 
teacher of mesmerism. His muscular, grace- 
ful little body weighed only a hundred and 
ten pounds, but what he lacked in inches and 
girth he made up in his commanding face. 
He had the brow of a poet — broad, white, 
veined with blue — and his military mus- 
taches turned up sharply from a full-lipped, 

383 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

determined mouth. The extraordinary fea- 
tures of the countenance were the eyes, large, 
intensely black, and bold as a lion's. I had 
seen him hypnotize a man once, and knew 
the power of that glance. 

As I pushed my way through the swaying, 
excited crowd, and reached the side of the car, 
I was confronted by another correspondent, who 
insisted upon his right to make the trip. 

" The car will only hold two," said Grimley; 
" one of you must stay on the earth." 

The crowd saw the situation, wagged its head, 
and roared like a storm at sea. 

" Let them toss a penny ! " shouted a gray- 
haired man who clung to a guy-rope. 

"Yes! yes! toss! toss!" shrieked the 
crowd. 

A gust of wind struck the balloon and swung 
it around in mighty circles. Grimley climbed 
like a cat into the iron concentrating ring, where 
the ropes connecting the car and the giant gas 
bag met. 

"You must decide between you which shall 
go and which shall stay," he said. "There's 
no time to lose ; a breeze is springing up." 

384 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

"Toss a penny! toss! toss!" screamed the 
heaving sea of faces. 

" It may be a toss for life," said the little 
aeronaut, fixing his great dark eyes on us; " but 
whatever it is, you must hurry. We're going to 
have a storm, and must leave the earth at 
once." 

I drew a Canadian penny from my pocket 
and flipped it in the air. 

" Heads ! " cried my antagonist. 

The crowd was suddenly silent, and parted 
to let the whirling coin fall on the ground. 

It was tails. In a moment I was in the car, 
and the door was shut with a clang. Grimley 
fastened the end of the throttle-valve rope in 
the concentrating ring, dropped into the car, 
seized the handle of the steering crank, and 
shouted to his assistants to release the guy- 
ropes. In a moment the balloon was free, and 
leaped about wildly in the wind, held down only 
by the car. 

" Let go!" 

The men who had been desperately hang- 
ing on to the car leaped back. The crowd 
uttered a sound that might have come from the 

385 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

throat of a whirlwind, and surged backward and 
forward. It was the supreme moment. 

But the balloon remained fast. The car was 
as immovable as Gibraltar. Something was 
wrong. The tragic thrill went out of the air. 
The heartless crowd laughed, and the romance 
and dash of the thing disappeared. It was one 
thing to summon up the soul for a wild sweep 
into the boundless air, and another thing to 
stand helplessly in the midst of that guffawing 
Canadian mob. It was the laughter of Niagara. 

" She won't lift the flying machinery," said 
Grimley, with an oath. " Strip the wheels off ! 
Lift the gearing out ! " 

" But my experiment ! " pleaded the inventor 
of the airship, at the aeronaut's elbow. " You 
can steer where you will when you get up — 
right, left, up, down." 

" Strip her, quick ! " commanded Grimley. 

In a few minutes the wheels and their fittings 
were torn out of the car, and a great sigh went 
up from the spectators as we shot swiftly away 
from the ground, the long drag-rope trailing 
down below us. The shouting became faint, 
and the upturned faces dim. Mount Royal 

386 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

seemed to grow flat. Masses of purple clouds 
were piled up on the northern horizon, sun- 
tipped and beautiful. We were drifting across 
Montreal, and could see the old Cathedral of 
Notre Dame, the Champ de Mars, Jacques 
Cartier Square, the Bon-Secour Market, with 
its throngs ; the acres of bright tin roofs glitter- 
ing in the slanting sunlight, and beyond the 
crooked streets and confused noises of the Cana- 
dian metropolis, the St. Lawrence River, broad, 
blue, majestic, its splendid wharves crowded 
with shipping, and a procession of barges and 
timber rafts floating downward from the Great 
Lakes. The wind took us rapidly across the 
river, but the cold air over the water caused the 
gas in the balloon to contract, and Grimley had 
to pour sand out of one of the ballast sacks to 
check our downward movement. 

It was a scene of great beauty. The de- 
scending sun struck a million sparkles in the 
clear flood beneath us, and the steamboats left 
feathery white trails behind them. The won- 
derful Victoria Bridge and its stone piers 
looked like a three-mile caterpillar stretched 
from shore to shore. Beyond were the swish- 

387 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

ing Lachine Rapids, and to the left the settle- 
ment of the Cauganawauga Indians, guilty of 
nothing worse than birch-bark toys, deerskin 
moccasins, and maple sugar. The mighty 
landscape was filled with color. Towns, vil- 
lages, woods, farms, streams, were spread out 
before the eye as far as the rim of the earth 
— the country of the hardiest and simplest 
race in the Western hemisphere, peaceful, con- 
tented neighbors of the great republic. 

The wind was rising and driving clouds 
across the sky. We could see the trees on 
St. Helen's Island bending in the breeze; 
but there was no sense of motion in the little 
iron car. We were going with the air and 
were untroubled. Grimley swung himself into 
the concentrating ring and crossed his legs 
under him, tailor fashion. There was some- 
thing uncanny in the elfin figure, white face, 
bristling mustache, and bottomless black eyes, 
with the vast yellow sphere floating above him, 
and its great neck breathing forth evil-smelling 
vapor. The stillness of the place was almost 
unbearable. 

" It's funny how people rush to see a balloon 

388 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

ascension," he said. " It isn't the love of sci- 
ence that stirs them up, for any man that 
isn't a blithering idiot knows that you can't 
steer a balloon in a strong wind any more than 
you can force a full-rigged ship, with all her 
sails set, against a hurricane. If you could 
get a motor powerful enough to do it, the 
envelope of the balloon would collapse. No ; 
men and women are still savage enough to 
enjoy the sight of human beings going to 
their death. It's the mystery of the thing 
that catches them. But it isn't only aeronauts 
and mesmerists who profit by the mystery in 
their business — doctors, preachers, poets, and 
all that tribe which lives on the borders of 
the unknown, live on mystery. There are 
thousands of fools looking up at us from the 
earth, and shuddering at terrors of their own 
imagination, while we sit here as safe and quiet 
as you please, and laugh at them. That's the 
way of the world. By the way " — looking at 
the barometer — " you'd better let out some 
ballast. We're falling." I poured out some 
sand from a sack. " That'll do. We have 
less than two hundred pounds of ballast, and 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

we must use it sparingly, for the sun is setting, 
and it's hard to keep a balloon floating in the 
cold night air." 

Grimley took an apple from his pocket and 
munched it slowly as he leaned back against 
the netting, with one hand thrown behind his 
head for greater comfort. The red glare of 
the sunset shone on the glistering curves of 
the balloon. 

"You lead a strange life, Grimley." 

The little captain of the air nodded his 
head, and a twinkle came into his eyes as he 
tossed the core of the apple away. 

" In a way, yes ; but, when you come to 
think of it, no stranger than the lives of many 
men who seem commonplace. There are thou- 
sands who keep themselves high in the world 
by feeding out money as ballast, just as I feed 
out sand. So long as they keep their breath 
to themselves, so long as they refrain from 
talking, they float. But the moment they open 
their mouths and let the emptiness out, down 
they come, just as a pull on that rope will re- 
lease the gas through the throttle-valve and 
make us sink back again to the earth. Mys- 

390 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

tery's the cloak that shelters most of the hum- 
bug in the world. When I was a tailor nobody- 
cared a tinker's damn for me ; but when I be- 
came a mesmerist and a balloonist I was a per- 
son of consequence, although my life was not 
a tenth part as useful as when I worked at 
my trade. I've had an offer to lecture in the 
small towns on an electric belt that cures all 
sorts of diseases. There's mystery and money 
in the business, and I'm going to accept. The 
world likes to be tricked if it can be tickled 
at the same time. I'll call myself Professor 
Something-or-other — you must keep a straight 
face when you bamboozle them ; you'll find 
that out in time." 

Hours passed. The glow faded out of the sky, 
and the wind increased. Our sand ballast was 
going fast. The landscape darkened. We passed 
over a thin cloud. A gentle rumble of thunder 
came from the gathering clouds in the north. 
There was a glimmering play of lightning, and 
the drifting vapors gleamed for a moment in pure 
white tones. We could hear the storm in the 
trees below us. 

Grimley made the anchor-rope ready, and 

391 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

hung the five-pronged anchor on the railing of 
the car. His rapid movements and half-sup- 
pressed mutterings convinced me that he was 
alarmed. He peered anxiously at the earth. 
Nothing could be seen but miles of trees thrash- 
ing in the gale. 

" Our ballast is exhausted," I said, as I threw 
the empty sack over. 

" Cut the drag-rope to pieces and use it for 
ballast," said the aeronaut. " We can't land in 
trees. We'll be torn to pieces." 

Foot by foot the drag-rope was severed and 
dropped over the railing. When it was all 
gone the balloon slowly sank again, and we 
could hear the rushing roar of the tempest in 
the murky woods. As we neared the wild tree- 
tops, the terrific speed at which we were going 
through the air became apparent. A thousand 
fierce voices seemed to call to us out of the 
agonized forest. And while we watched the 
furious storm sweeping over the land, there 
was not a breath of air stirring in the car, for 
we were travelling as fast as the gale. 

" Unless we strike a clearing soon, we're lost," 
said Grimley, quietly, as he stooped and began 

392 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

to tear up the wooden flooring of the car. 
" We must lighten her even if we have to throw 
our clothes away. Everything must go over- 
board but the anchor-rope ; that's our only 
salvation. My God ! what a night ! " 

Soon we had cleared the car of every mova- 
ble thing, and Grimley climbed into the con- 
centrating ring to free the end of the rope 
that worked the throttle-valve in the top of the 
balloon. We had risen a little, but the howling 
of the storm in the timber still sounded fearfully 
through the darkness. Grimley threw his jacket 
and shoes away. 

" So long as we go with the wind, we're 
safe," said the little philosopher, with a mirth- 
less laugh. " We're like a Wall Street plunger 
— if he goes on, he's ruined, if he stops, he's 
smashed up." 

I was leaning against the side of the car and 
gazing down at the dark tumult, wondering 
vaguely why I had trusted my life to the 
strength of an envelope filled with gas, when, 
without warning, the fastening of the car door 
yielded to my weight, and I lurched out into 
the darkness. With a cry of despair I caught 

393 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

at the swinging door and hung trembling be- 
tween heaven and earth. 

Looking up I saw Grimley staring at me 
from his perch. His strange black eyes seemed 
to draw me toward him. His nostrils were 
spread, and his face was deathly white. The 
whole power of the man was in the intense look 
he bent upon me. He beckoned gently with 
one hand. 

" Come ! come ! come ! " he commanded in a 
low voice. " Come ! come ! " 

He looked like a great tomcat crouching in 
the rigging. The eyes glowed and flashed. I 
felt a sudden sense of strength, and began 
to pull myself upward, but the oscillation 
of the door made me weak again. The roar- 
ing of the tempest in the woods grew louder. 
A flash of lightning whitened the confused 
sky. 

" Come ! come ! " urged the steady voice. 
" It's easy. There ! there ! Come ! " 

With a tremendous effort I managed to reach 
the solid rail of the car, and in another moment 
I was safe inside of it, but I shook from head to 
foot and cold drops of sweat stood on my fore- 

394 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

head. Grimley dropped into the car and shut 
the door. 

" I tried to mesmerize you," he remarked. 
" Newspaper men are such sceptics that they're 
hard subjects, but I thought I might succeed 
with a young one like you. I could feel that I 
was helping you — heavens! what a close 
escape ! " 

But there was no time to discuss the matter. 
We were nearing the earth. 

"Throw your field-glass over," said Grimley, 
as he returned to the iron ring and seized the 
throttle-rope. The balloon rose slightly. We 
were travelling with the speed of an express 
train. 

" There's a clearing of some sort ahead," he 
cried. "I'm going to let her down" — and 
with a long pull on the rope he opened the 
throttle-valve at the top of the great gas bag. 

We began to descend swiftly toward the rag- 
ing billows of tree-tops, and the sounds were 
like the voices of wild animals — deep, fierce, 
and full of menace. The tempest carried us 
along so fast that we seemed to be moving over 
a heavy, frothing sea. 

395 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

"We're going to strike and drag," shouted 
Grimley, with a warning gesture. " Lie down 
and cover your face or your eyes will be put 
out." 

I threw myself in the bottom of the car and 
hid my face in my arms. The next moment 
there was a terrific crash, as we plunged into the 
forest, and the iron piping of the car bent and 
twisted while it tore through the grinding, clash- 
ing branches — ripping, splitting, smashing on- 
ward in the gloom, with giant arms striking 
blindly at us. For a moment the wind lifted us 
clear of the trees, and hurled us down again 
into the black tumult. Again we rebounded, 
and again we sank. The balloon quivered like 
a creature in pain. Each time the car went 
deeper into the trees, and soon it thundered 
against the solid trunks, and thrashed itself out 
of shape. There was something awful in that 
shapeless, shrieking, staggering riot — and yet 
I remember distinctly that, as I was thrown sav- 
agely about against the iron pipes, with the scent 
of the wounded pines and maples in my nostrils, 
I was thinking of the moment when I swung to 
and fro on the door, with Grimley's wonderful 

396 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

eyes upon me, and the hand slowly beckoning 
me away from death. Looking up for an in- 
stant I could see the small figure tangled in the 
network around the ring, the throttle-rope 
wound around his waist, his arms tugging 
against the springs of the valve, and his face 
thrust through a mass of leaves torn off by the 
netting. 

"Hold tight!" he yelled. "We'll be clear 
in a moment." 

Just then we were swept into an open field, 
and the shattered car struck the ground 
heavily. The wind dragged us, lifted us, and 
dragged us again. We were on ploughed earth. 
For a moment the balloon leaned over like a 
tired monster, and the car stood still. Then 
the gale caught it and sent us flying against 
a loose stone fence, and we landed in another 
furrowed field. 

" Let us jump ! " 

"No! no!" exclaimed Grimley, holding me 
back. "The first man who jumps will send 
the other to death, for she will go up like a 
flash." 

" Jump together ! " 

397 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" Save the balloon," he pleaded. " It's worth 
three thousand dollars, and it's all I have." 

We threw ourselves face downward in the 
car, and each time it settled itself on the 
ground we dragged handfuls of earth into it. 
Grimley managed to reach a heavy stone, and 
pulled it through the bars. The added weight 
steadied the car. We worked furiously, scrap- 
ing and clutching at the damp furrows, until 
there were bushels of ballast in the car. The 
giant gas bag sank downward again. The 
throttle-valve rope was hauled tight and tied 
to the railing. Each moment the balloon grew 
weaker. 

" I guess we're safe now," said my compan- 
ion, as he ran with the end of the anchor- 
rope to a tree and made it fast. Then he 
stood for a moment, with his hands on his 
hips, and regarded the heaving balloon, start- 
ing from side to side at each gust of the les- 
sening storm. His shirt sleeves were torn 
and there were drops of blood on his face. 

" Now, my son," he said, "you know what 
a man must expect when he leaves his place 
in nature." 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

His eyes sparkled, and he twirled his mus- 
taches. 

" I think I'll go back to teaching dancing or 
mesmerism," he added, with a smile. " If 
that don't do, why I'll be a tailor again. That 
was simply hell back there. But you've got 
a good story to write, haven't you, and I — 
— well, I've got a nasty job of mending to do. 
I tell you, when you try to fly too high, you 
simply get your trousers torn." 

Now came the work of emptying the balloon 
of its gas. The wind had suddenly died out. 
Millions of fireflies twinkled in the darkness. 
The stars shone faintly in the blue patches be- 
tween the drifting clouds. The fragrance of 
the pines mingled with the smell of ploughed 
earth. On all sides rose the black woods, the 
tops still trembling. Thousands of frogs piped 
shrilly in the summer air. Grimley hauled on 
the netting until he brought the top of the 
panting balloon to the ground, and holding 
the shutters of the valve open, he bade me 
pull down the net on the opposite side, to 
force the gas out more quickly. As I moved 
around the huge shape that lay throbbing and 

399 



ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT 

swelling in the darkness, I could hear my com- 
panion's voice directing me. Gradually the 
sound grew feebler, and presently it ceased. 
There was something in the sudden silence 
that frightened me, and I ran to the other 
side to find Grimley lying face downward in a 
furrow, his arms under his body, and a stream 
of gas pouring about him from the balloon. 
He had swallowed the fumes and was uncon- 
scious, perhaps dead. 

Dragging him away from the fluttering 
mouth of the balloon, I shook him, beat him, 
and chafed his hands. To the day of his 
death Grimley never knew what caused those 
bruises on his body. Gradually consciousness 
returned. He rose to his feet and fell. Again 
he stood up, staggering and reeling like a 
drunken man. I had fractured my right arm 
during the race through the tree-tops, and the 
pain became almost intolerable. I shouted for 
help, and the woods echoed back my voice. 

Where there was ploughed ground there 
must be a house ; but the twinkling myriads 
of fireflies defeated my search for a light in 
the distance. With my left arm around Grim- 

400 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

ley's waist, we found a fence at the edge of 
the field and followed it. After a while we 
could see a steady yellow light. We waded 
through a swamp straight toward it. The 
chill of the water revived Grimley, and we 
pushed forward vigorously. Finally we saw 
a little white farmhouse, a yellow light shin- 
ing through the windows. Then we reached 
a rough road. We raised our voices. The 
light was suddenly extinguished. 

When we got to the door, the upper half 
of which was glass, we knocked loudly, but 
there was no response. We repeated the 
knocking ; then we shouted. 

There was a stir in the house, and a match 
was struck. Through the glass panes in the 
door we could see an old man with a bushy 
gray beard, a white gown reaching to his 
knees, a pointed red night-cap on his head. 
He lit a candle, took a shotgun from the wall, 
and came to the door with a catlike tread 
and vigilant eyes. He was a French Cana- 
dian farmer, prepared to defend his home 
against night intruders. 

One glance at our bleeding faces and torn 

401 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

clothes satisfied him, and he threw the door 
open. We explained the situation, and he 
made us a rough sleeping place on the floor. 
Then he blew the light out, and went back to 
his wife in the next room. 

As he got into bed we could hear him ex- 
plaining the matter in French. 

" Two fools, heh ! One fool wanted to fly 
like a bird, heh ! and the other fool went to 
write about it, heh ! Thank God and our 
Holy Lady I'm not a fool, and I'll make 
them pay well for interfering with my field, 
heh! Balloon, heh! Bah! Pish!" 

A rasping snore followed. 

" That's a devil of an ending," groaned 
Grimley. " Some men don't know a mystery 
when they see it." 



402 



CHAPTER XX 

McKinley, the Forgiving 

STANDING at the very heart of the great 
exposition in Buffalo, where the commer- 
cial and political communion of all the 
Americas was celebrated in a city of fairy 
loveliness, President McKinley was shaking 
hands with the pouring, babbling crowd — the 
supreme moment of his triumphant life. As he 
stood there among his countrymen, crowned 
with success, garlanded with praise, he seemed 
the master-spirit of his continent, the archtype 
of its modern victories. He had raised the 
American flag beyond the seas, and had seen 
his country enter upon the leadership of nations. 
Only the day before he had announced a new 
national policy, broad, high, and far-reaching. 

A slender man, a mere youth, pushed eagerly 
forward in the line that moved before the Presi- 
dent. In his hand he carried a cheap revolver 
covered with a white handkerchief. As he 

403 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

reached the President he raised his masked 
hand and fired two shots. A roar like the 
sound of the sea in a storm ascended from the 
swaying crowd. Then there was silence. 

How frail beyond measurement are the plans 
of nations ! The greatest of free nations had 
chosen William McKinley to be its leader ; and 
the meanest, the most obscure, of its teeming 
millions — a wretched, blind failure in life, a 
human derelict drifting miserably in a land 
abounding in freedom and prosperity — had 
power enough to turn a national triumph into 
ashes — not in hatred, not in the service of 
some great cause, but even as a wanton urchin 
might set fire to some priceless library. 



There were many among us standing in the 
quiet street before the house where the twenty- 
fifth President of the United States lay dying 
who had written bitter things of him in the 
stormy times of his public service, but none 
who knew him save as a man who forgave his 
enemies. And after all the years of pelting 
political criticism and ridicule, the crack of an 

404 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

assassin's pistol had called us together to wit- 
ness the most beautiful death-bed in history. 
For a week we paced the pavement about that 
hushed place of pain, watching the guardian 
bayonets of the sentries and listening to the 
telegraph instruments in the huddled white 
tents ticking out the story to the ends of the 
earth or bringing messages from kings and 
emperors ; and when the end came, it was like 
a strain of Christian music, to be heard for all 
time. Our little daily pen-pricks were lost in 
the grandeur of that matchless death — forgot- 
ten and forgiven. 

Hardly had the bullets pierced his body, 
when the President leaned forward and looked 
into the eyes of the assassin. It was a look 
of astonishment and reproach. Then, remem- 
bering the dignity befitting the President of 
the United States in the presence of a great 
audience, he walked steadily to a chair and 
sat down. The murderer writhed on the floor 
beneath his infuriate captors. The President 
looked at him again. 

"Did — did he shoot me?" he asked. 

"Yes." 

405 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" Don't hurt him." His voice was full of 
pity. 

The passionate multitude drew back in awe. 

" My wife," he faltered. " Be careful how 
you tell her — oh, be careful." 

When the dying President was carried into 
the little hospital of the Pan-American Expo- 
sition, he turned to Mr. Cortelyou, his secre- 
tary, and said : — 

" It must have been some poor misguided 
fellow." 

He seemed to be filled with amazement by 
the thought that any man in free America 
could have found a motive for seeking his 
death. His every word expressed this bewil- 
derment. And when the surgeons pressed 
around him in that first terrible hour he 
turned his thoughts heavenward and bore him- 
self like a Christian hero. 

"Mr. President," said Dr. Mann, the operat- 
ing surgeon, "we intend to cut in at once. 
We lost one President by delay, and we do 
not intend to lose you." 

" I am in your hands," murmured the Presi- 
dent. 

406 




William Mc Kin ley 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

He was prepared for the ordeal and lifted 
upon the operating table. The surgeons were 
ready to administer ether. He opened his 
eyes and saw that he was about to enter a 
sleep from which he might never awaken. 
Then the lids closed flutteringly. The white 
face was suddenly lit by a tender smile. All 
the angel there was in him came to his face. 
The wan lips stirred, and the surgeons lis- 
tened. 

" Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done." 

His voice was soft and clear. Tears rolled 
down the faces of the listeners. The Presi- 
dent raised his chest and sighed. His lips 
moved again. 

"Thy will be done." 

Dr. Mann stood with the keen knife in his 
hand — dread symbol of human science. There 
was a lump in his throat. 

" For Thine is the kingdom and the power 
and the glory." 

The eyelids fluttered gently, beads of cold 
moisture stood on the bloodless brow. There 
was silence. So he entered the darkness ; 
and if there is a loftier scene in the history 

407 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

of Christian statesmen and rulers, there is no 
record of it. 

That was the beginning of eight days of 
national agony. The President was carried to 
a room in the house of his host, John G. Mil- 
burn, and all human power was called upon to 
save him. As he lay there, teaching the 
world how a good man can die, thoughts of 
his great responsibilities as a leader pressed 
upon him. 

It is no exaggeration to say that the speech 
delivered by the President on the day before 
he was struck down was the greatest act of 
statesmanship of his life. His plea for a 
policy of commercial reciprocity was an appeal 
for peace with the world, an effort to avert a 
tariff war by united Europe against the United 
States. He had recognized the signs of ap- 
proaching conflict and he had felt the stub- 
born opposition of men in his own party to 
his policy of conciliation. There was but one 
thing to do — appeal to the people. All 
through his summer rest from official routine 
in Ohio he had worked out his last great utter- 
ance. It was to be at once a message of 

408 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

warning to America and a signal of peace to 
Europe. 

"God and man have linked the nations to- 
gether," he said to the mighty crowd stretched 
out before him. " No nation can longer be 
indifferent to any other. And as we are 
brought more and more in touch with each 
other, the less occasion is there for misunder- 
standings, and the stronger the disposition, 
when we have differences, to adjust them in 
the court of arbitration, which is the noblest 
forum for the settlement of international dis- 
putes. . . . The period of exclusiveness is 
past. The expansion of our trade and com- 
merce is the pressing problem. Commercial 
wars are unprofitable. A policy of good will 
and friendly trade relations will prevent repri- 
sals. Reciprocity treaties are in harmony with 
the spirit of the times; measures of retaliation 
are not. . . . Our earnest prayer is that God 
will graciously vouchsafe prosperity, happiness, 
and peace to all our neighbors, and like bless- 
ings to all the peoples and Powers of earth." 

These were the President's last words as a 
statesman and leader. How had the world 

409 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

received them ? Even in his dying hours he 
longed to hear the answer. When the first 
agony of his wounds was over, he sent for his 
faithful secretary. Mr. Cortelyou entered the 
room and stood beside the stricken chief. 

" It's mighty lonesome in here," said the 
President. 

"I know it is." 

The President's eyes brightened, and the 
old familiar wrinkles appeared in his face as 
he turned eagerly to his assistant. 

" How did they like my speech ? " he asked. 

" It is regarded as one of the greatest you 
have ever made, and has attracted more at- 
tention than anything you have said for 
years." 

The President smiled and looked earnestly 
into Mr. Cortelyou's eyes. 

" How did they like it abroad ? " 

" It has attracted considerable attention 
abroad, and everywhere the comment is favor- 
able." 

" Isn't that good ?" And he spoke no more 
of things political, having heard the echo of his 
cry for peace. 

410 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

In the afternoon of his last day on earth the 
President began to realize that his life was 
slipping away and that the efforts of science 
could not save him. He asked Dr. Rixey to 
bring the surgeons in. One by one the sur- 
geons entered and approached the bedside. 
When they were gathered about him the Presi- 
dent opened his eyes and said : — 

" It is useless, gentlemen ; I think we ought 
to have prayer." 

The dying man crossed his hands on his 
breast and half-closed his eyes. There was 
a beautiful smile on his countenance. The 
surgeons bowed their heads. Tears streamed 
from the eyes of the white-clad nurses on either 
side of the bed. The yellow radiance of the 
sun shone softly in the room. 

"Our Father, which art in Heaven," said 
the President, in a clear, steady voice. 

The lips of the surgeons moved. 

" Hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom 
come. Thy will be done — " 

The sobbing of a nurse disturbed the still 
air. The President opened his eyes and closed 
them again. 

411 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

"Thy will be done in earth as it is in 
Heaven." 

A long sigh. The sands of life were running 
swiftly. The sunlight died out and raindrops 
dashed against the windows. 

"Give us this day our daily bread; and 
forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors ; 
and lead us not into temptation, but deliver 
us from evil." 

Another silence. The surgeons looked at 
the dying face and the trembling lips. 

" For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and 
the glory, forever. Amen." 

" Amen," whispered the surgeons. 

Outside, an army of newspaper writers moved 
silently about the tents of the telegraph opera- 
tors, and the bayonets of the sentries pacing 
slowly on all sides glittered in the afternoon 
light. Beyond the clear spaces of roped-off 
streets were the awed crowds. Even the police- 
men spoke in hushed voices. As the surgeons 
or Cabinet officers or other friends of the 
dying President appeared, they were engulfed 
by the eager seekers for news. Vice-President 
Roosevelt — he who was soon to wear the awful 

412 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

mantle of authority — was summoned from his 
distant hunting camp in the mountains. Ten- 
der words of sympathy from the rulers of all 
nations came flashing over the wires. 

Darkness descended on the scene. The 
President was conscious again. He asked 
for his wife. Presently she came to him, lean- 
ing feebly on the arm of Mr. Cortelyou. As 
she reached the side of her husband and lover, 
— who had read to her every day at twilight 
for years from the Bible, — she sank into a 
chair, and leaning her frail form over the white 
counterpane, she took his hands in hers and 
kissed them. There was a group of friends in 
the room, and they drew away from the sacred 
spectacle. The light of the two candles behind 
the screen was reflected faintly on the white 
ceiling and tinted walls. It sparkled on the 
wedding ring. 

The President's eyes were closed. His breath 
came slowly. As he felt the touch of his wife's 
lips, he smiled. It was to be their last meeting. 

"Good-by! Good-by, all!" 

Mrs. McKinley gazed into the white face of 
the martyr, and struggled for strength to bear it. 

413 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

" It is God's way ; His will, not ours, be 
done." 

The President turned his face slightly toward 
his wife. A look of ineffable love shone in the 
haggard features. She held his hands as a 
child clings to its mother. The ticking of the 
clock in the next room could be heard. Once 
more the President spoke. 

"Nearer my God — to — Thee — " 

His soul was on his lips. His face was 
radiant. 

" E'en tho' it be a cross — " 

There was a moment of utter silence. 

"That has been my inextinguishable 
prayer." 

His voice was almost inaudible. 

"It is — God's — way." 

It was the last thought and the last word of 
the gentle President. 

As the night wore on, the signs of life grew 
fainter. One by one the members of the Cabi- 
net, the relatives, and the intimate friends of 
the dying statesman were brought into the 
room by Mr. Cortelyou. One by one they 
stood at the bedside and took farewell of the 

414 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

still form, — grave senators, old schoolmates, 
young men who had followed him in the fierce 
struggles of politics, statesmen who had sat with 
him in council, men and women of his blood. 
They moved like shadows. He neither saw 
them nor heard them. Midnight came, and 
yet he gave no sign. 

Hope brooded in the waiting crowds. It 
was known that Dr. Janeway, the famous 
specialist, was on his way from New York. 
Who could tell but that the skill and knowl- 
edge of the great physician might turn back 
the force of death, and give the President to 
his people again? Oh, the agony of that hour! 
Men walked in the streets as softly as though 
they were in the sickroom. 

Suddenly the stillness was broken by a dis- 
tant sound of a galloping horse's feet. Nearer 
and nearer it came through the darkness. The 
ropes stretched across the street were dropped, 
and the voiceless multitude parted as an open 
carriage drawn by a foam-covered, smoking 
steed swept madly up to the house of sor- 
row. A man leaped from the carriage and 
ran to the house at the top of his speed. It 

415 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

was Dr. Janeway. The hundreds of newspaper 
correspondents swarmed eagerly against the 
ropes, and waited for a word of hope. So 
great was the stillness that the noise of the 
telegraph instruments in the tents tortured the 
nerves. 

Alas ! no. The President was beyond the 
help of human hands. Not all the doctors in 
all the schools could call him back from the 
shadows. 

At a quarter after two o'clock in the morn- 
ing Dr. Rixey sat at the beside holding the 
President's wrist in one hand and an open 
watch in the other. Tick ! tick ! tick ! The 
breath stirred the white nostrils. Tick! tick! 
tick ! The smiling face was rigid. Dr. Rixey 
laid the President's hand down gently and 
closed his watch. 

"The President is dead," he said. 

Within thirty seconds the telegraph wires 
were carrying the news to a thousand centres 
of civilization ; and the tired newspaper men 
went to their beds for rest before beginning the 
history of a new President ; for the hand of 
the assassin might slay a beloved President, but 

416 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

it was powerless to interrupt the story of the 
nation. 



"In God's own might 
We gird us for the coming fight, 
And, strong in Him, whose cause is ours 
In conflict with unholy powers, 
We grasp the weapons He has given, — 
The Light, the Truth, and Love of Heaven. 



Whatever else history may say of William 
McKinley, those who knew him will bear wit- 
ness to the forgiveness that shone through his 
character. It was the crown of his life, the vir- 
tue that distinguished him among American 
statesmen. He died without an enemy, forgiv- 
ing the hand that shed his blood. 

" My one ambition is to be known as the 
President of the whole people," he said to me 
when I last saw him in the White House. " I 
have no other desire than to win that name. 
After all, no American can harm his country 
without harming himself. This government 
was created by the people for themselves, and, 
night or day, that thought is always in my 

417 



ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY 

mind. We are all together in this great politi- 
cal experiment. Some hard things have been 
written and said of me, but that sort of thing 
is a necessary incident of popular government. 
It must always be so. My plan is to forget 
the evil and remember only the good. I never 
despair of converting an opponent into a sup- 
porter. The bitterest critic I have can come to 
see me, and he will find a warm hand to greet 
him. It is the only way for an American to 
live." 

So he lived and so he died. Men of all 
parties will remember him as McKinley, the 
Forgiving. 

" Let us ever remember," he said in his last 
speech, " that our interest is in concord, not 
conflict; and that our real eminence rests in 
the victories of peace, not those of war." 



418 



Selections from 

Lothrop Publishing Company's 

List of Books 




D'ri and I 



By 

IRVING 
BACHELLER 
author of 
"EBEN 
HOLDEN." 
Bound in 
red silk cloth, 
illustrated 
cover, 
gilt top, 
rough edges. 
Eight 

drawings by 
F. C. Yohn. 
Size, 5x73/4. 
Price, $1.50 




A Tale of 
Daring Deeds 
in the 

Second War 
with the 
British. 
Being the 
Memoirs of 
Colonel 
Ramon Bell, 
U.S.A. And 
a Romance of 
Sturdy 
Americans 
and Dainty 
French 
Demoiselles. 



Philadelphia Press: 

" An admirable story, superior in literary workmanship and imagination 
to ' Eben Holden.' " 

New York World: 

" Pretty as are the heroines, gallant as Captain Bell proves himself, the 
reader comes back with even keener zest to the imperturbable D'ri. He is 
a type of the American — grit, grim humor, rough courtesy, and all. It is a 
great achievement, upon which Mr. Bacheller is to be heartily congratulated, 
to have added to the list of memorable figures in American fiction, two such 
characters as D'ri and Eben Holden." 

Boston Beacon: 

" Mr. Bacheller has the art of the born story teller. ' D'ri and I ' prom- 
ises to rival ' Eben Holden ' in popularity." 

St. Louis Globe-Democrat : 

" The admirers of ' Eben Holden," and they were legion, will welcome 
another story by its author, Irving Bacheller, who in ' D'ri and I ' has 
created quite as interesting a character as the sage of the North land who 
was the hero of the former story." 



Lothrop Publishing Company - - Boston 



Eben Holden 

A Tale of the North Country 

By IRVING BACHELLER. Bound in red silk cloth, 

decorative cover, gilt top, rough edges. Size, 5 x 7U* 

Price, $1.50 

* I / HE most popular book in America. 
Within eight months after publication 
it had reached its two hundred and fiftieth 
thousand. The most American of recent 
novels, it has indeed been hailed as the 
long looked for " American novel." 

William Dean Howells says of it ; " I have 
read c Eben Holden ' with a great joy in 
its truth and freshness. You have got 
into your book a kind of life not in 
literature before, and you have got it 
there simply and frankly. It is ' as pure 
as water and as good as bread.' " 

Edmund Clarence Stedman says of it : " It is 
a forest-scented, fresh-aired, bracing, and 
wholly American story of country and 
town life." 

Lothrop Publishing Company - - Boston 



J. Devlin — Boss 

A Romance of American Politics 

By FRANCIS CHURCHILL WILLIAMS. J2mo, $J^0 



^TT'HIS is a story of the typical figure in the shaping of 
■*■ American life. ** Jimmy," shrewd, strong, re- 
sourceful, clean-hearted, is vital ; and the double love story 
which is woven about him gives an absolutely true and 
near view of the American boss. The revelations of politi- 
cal intrigue — from the governing of a ward to the upset- 
ting of the most sensational Presidential Convention which 
this country has seen — are, as sketched in this romance, 
of intense interest ; the scenes and characters in them are 
almost photographic. But above all of these stands Jimmy 
himself, unscrupulous as a politician, honorable as a man 
— Jimmy, the playmate, the counselor, and the lover 
of the winsome, clear-eyed Kate, the stanch friend of 
herself and of her son — Jimmy, with a straight word 
always for those who are true to him, a helping hand 
for all who need it, and a philosophy which is irresistible. 



Lothrop Publishing Company - - Boston 



When the Land was Young 

Being the True Romance of Mistress Antoinette 
Huguenin and Captain Jack Middleton 



By 

LAFAYETTE 

McLAWS. 

Bound in 

green cloth, 

illustrated 

cover, 

gilt top, 

rough edges. 

Six drawings 

by 

Will Crawford 

Size, 5x7%. 

Price, $1.50 




V 



wars between the Spaniards of 
and against this historical back 
story that is absorbing, dramatic 



HE heroine, 

Antoinette 
Huguenin, a 
beauty of King 
Louis' Court, is 
one of the most 
attractive fig- 
ures in ro- 
mance ; while 
Lumulgee, the 
great war chief 
of the Choc- 
*%" V'sM I taws, and Sir 
' V vl-V - S'M Henry Morgan, 

[ the Buccaneer 
Knight and 
terror of the 
Spanish Main, 
divide the hon- 
ors with hero 
and heroine. 
The time was 
full of border 
Fiorida and the English colonists, 
ground Miss McLaws has thrown a 
, and brilliant. 



What a girl she is! 



New York World: 

" Lovely Mistress Antoinette Huguenin! 

New York Journal: 

" A story of thrill and adventure." 

Savannah News: 

" Among the entertaining romances based upon the colonial days of 
American history this novel will take rank as one of the most notable — a 
dramatic and brilliant story." 

St. Louis Globe-Democrat: 

" If one is anxious for a thrill, he has only to read a few pages of ' When 
the Land was Young ' to experience the desired sensation. . . . There is 
action of the most virile type throughout the romance. ... It is vividly 
told, and presents a realistic picture of the days " when the land was young." 



Lothrop Publishing Company - - Boston 



The Potter and the Clay 

A Romance of To-day 

By MAUD HOWARD PETERSON. Bound in blue cloth, 
decorative cover, rough edges, gilt top* Four drawings by 
Charlotte Harding. Size, 5x7%. Price $ 1 .50 



ONE of the strongest and most forceful of re- 
cent novels, now attracting marked attention, 
and already one of the most successful books of 
the present year. The characters are unique, 
the plot is puzzling, and the action is remarkably 
vivid. Readers and critics alike pronounce it a 
romance of rare strength and beauty. The scenes 
are laid in America, Scotland, and India ; and one 
of the most thrilling and pathetic chapters in re- 
cent fiction is found in Trevelyan's heroic self- 
sacrifice during the heart-rending epidemic of 
cholera in the latter country. The story through- 
out is one of great strength. 

Margaret E. Sangster : " From the opening 
chapter, which tugs at the heart, to the close, 
when we read through tears, the charm of the 
book never flags. It is not for one season, but 
of abiding human interest." 

Minot J. Savage : " I predict for the book a very 
large sale, and for the authoress brilliant work 
in the future." 

Boston Journal: " One of the most remarkable books 
of the year. Brilliant, but better than that, 
tender." 



Lothrop Publishing Company J> Boston 



A Carolina Cavalier 

A Romance of the Carolinas 

By GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON 

Bound in red silk cloth, illustrated cover, gilt top, rough edges. 
Six drawings by C D. Williams. Size, 5x7M. Price $1.50 

A strong, delightful romance of Revolu- 
•**• tionary days, most characteristic of its 
vigorous author, George Cary Eggleston. 
The story is founded on absolute happenings 
and certain old papers of the historic Rut- 
ledges of Carolina. As a love story, it is 
sweet and true ; and as a patriotic novel it is 
grand and inspiring. The historic setting, 
and the fact that it is distinctively and enthu- 
siastically American, have combined to win 
instant success for the book. 

Louisville Courier Journal: "A fine Story of ad- 
venture, teeming with life and aglow 
with color." 

Cleveland World: " There is action, plot, and 
fire. Love and valor and loyalty play a 
part that enhances one's respect for 
human nature." 

Baltimore Sun: "The story is full of move- 
ment. It is replete with adventure. It is 
saturated with love. 

Lothrop Publishing Company > Boston 



A Princess of the Hills 

A Story of Italy 

By MRS. BURTON HARRISON. Bound in Green 
Cloth, Decorative Cover, Gilt Top, Rough Edges. Four 
Drawings by ORSON LOWELL. Size, 7^x5. $ 1 .50. 

11 7TRS. BURTON HARRISON is a charming story- 

"* teller. Unlike her other novels, "A Princess 
of the Hills" is not a romance of New York society, 
nor of Colonial times, but is a story of Italian life. 
An American tourist retreats from a broken engage- 
ment at Venice to that section of the North Italian 
Alps known as the Dolomites. Here he encounters 
a daughter of the soil, the last of a noble race, but 
now a humble peasant girl, — a real princess of the 
hills. The complications of the situation ; the aroused 
interest of the American ; the rival lovers, English, 
American, and Italian ; the fierceness of the feud 
this love engenders ; the struggle for possession and 
its unexpected outcome and denouement, — are told 
with masterly skill and with an interest that remains 
unflagging to the end. 



Lothrop Publishing Company - - Boston 



The Kidnapped 
Millionaires 

A Story of Wall Street and Mexico 

By FREDERICK U. ADAMS. J2mo, cloth, $J.50 

/^\NE of the most timely and startling stories 
of the day. A plan to form a great 
Newspaper Trust, evolved in the brain of an 
enterprising special correspondent, leads to the 
kidnapping of certain leading Metropolitan mil- 
lionaires and marooning them luxuriously on 
a Mexican headland ; the results — the panic 
in Wall Street, the search for the kidnapped 
millionaires, their discovery and rescue are the 
chief motives of the story, which has to do also 
with trusts, syndicates, newspaper methods, and 
all the great monetary problems and financial 
methods of the day. The story is full of adven- 
ture, full of humor, and full of action and sur- 
prises, while the romance that develops in its 
progress is altogether charming and delightful. 

Lothrop Publishing Company - - Boston 



M - 1 81 




% 

^ A^ Deacidified using the BookKeeper process. 

*"V c Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 



PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
n?d\ 779-2111 



■-+ -svw** <r 



v s s * ° 'x. o o 




DOBBS BROS. % - 

LIBRARY BINDING 



& A*** 



MOD -BMQ" x* V v'WtfV «* **■ °.VVV < 






